


The Days We Forgot

by nltul



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Bullying, Cheating, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, College, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, First Love, Fix-It, High School, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hypochondria, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, Music, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Richie Tozier is Whipped, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Smoking, Teenage Dorks, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Underage Drinking, all those rebellious teenager things, cuz i hated the real ending, teenage richie is heavily inspired by finn soz, they're still all big dorks tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-10-12 17:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nltul/pseuds/nltul
Summary: Richie fell in love when he was fourteen, and even when he forgot all about his home and the boy that had made his heart flutter for the very first time in his life, he never quite managed to fall out of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i was super nervous about posting this since i'm not actually that familiar with the story other than the movies, but after doing some research (and being VERY dissatisfied with the ending of the movies) i decided to re-write how i imagine they were during their teenage years/during the contents of chapter two. warning though, this CAN be very triggering for some, so please proceed with caution <33

Richie took in his appearance in the mirror; the glasses he had been stuck with for most of his life, his plaid shirt that emphasised how skinny he was, and frowned. His hair had grown longer during the summer, curling at the back of his neck, but it looked lifeless. The dark shadows underneath his eyes and his sunken cheeks along with his deathly complexion a miserable reminder of the lack of sleep he had been getting. He heard his mother yell about missing school, threw a final, lasting glance at his reflection, and heaved a sigh before throwing his ragged backpack over his shoulder and walking downstairs.

His mother gave him a brief glance, her ageing yet beautiful face marred with a frown brought by confusion and concern. She asked if he wanted to eat anything, but Richie simply gave her a shake of his head and left the house, feeling as if his there were multiple weights hanging from his ankles, sinking him into the concrete of his driveway, as he walked towards his old bike and unlocked the chain and straddled it. He felt odd, being a regular freshman at a regular high school after the traumatic events of the summer, feeling almost like a nightmare yet being anything but. 

The weather was warm, the sun shining like the town of Derry was clinging to the last few days of summer like a lifeline, trying its best to make it seem like summer would never end, like nothing had changed. In his heart, Richie knew that nothing really changed after all.

He stopped in front of Eddie’s house, waiting for him so they could go to school together like they had been doing for years. He could see Mrs Kaspbrak peeking through the curtains of the one story house, her expression pulled in an annoyed grimace. She wasn't particularly fond of the group of kids Eddie chose to surround himself with, his lifelong friends, and had made that awfully clear, but his son seemed to have a new-found confidence against his mother as he opened the front door and left the house, his cast long gone, not even sparing her a glance. He frowned at Richie, muttering something about “fucking high school” and it was so oddly familiar that for a second Richie could convince himself that everything had been a simply nightmare after all. He shoved Eddie slightly on the shoulder, joked about his mother peeking just to see him since he hadn't called her after their night spent together, and Eddie flipped him off, out of his mother’s sight. He was still the short, skinny little kid, but perhaps he had grown an inch or two in the past couple of months. Richie sure had.

They met up with Bill, Ben and Mike first, riding their bikes until they reached the crossroad where they spotted Stanley waiting for their arrival with his own by his side. The absence of Beverly was obvious and heavy in the tension that hung above their heads despite their jokes and half-hearted insults, their friend group lacking her chuckles and eye smiles and teasing. Bill and Ben seemed more down than the rest of them. Richie didn't exactly know what had been going on between them before Beverly had moved to Portland, but he figured that it wasn't something that would have a clear answer.

“I miss Bev,” Ben said quietly, killing the bickering between Richie and Eddie. For a second or two, all that could be heard was the chain of the bikes and the rubbing of the tires against the asphalt.

“W-we all do,” Bill replied, grim, and that was the end of it. Until Richie decided to open his mouth, unable to handle the tension.

“Yeah, even if she was a little bossy.”

Bill frowned. “Sh-she wasn't b-bo-bossy,” he stuttered, “s-she was p-p-protective of u-us.”

“Hey, she’s my friend too, man,” Richie replied, raising a hand from the handle of his bike. Bill didn't give him an answer, licking his lips intently like there was something on his mouth. Richie felt a nudge on his side.

“Good job, cumwad,” Eddie said, frowning too, and Richie could only shrug in mild annoyance. He had been trying to make a joke, to lighten to mood. He didn't like tension, bitter feelings and expressions, longing. They were complicated and a hindrance, it was far easier to make stupid jokes and make other people laugh, or punch him in the shoulder and tell him to shut up. It was easy, it was familiar.

The school gates were already packed full of students on their bikes or getting off the bus, matching expressions of utter despair on their faces, their shoulders slung like the weight of their backpacks was physically dragging them down. Richie didn't feel too unlike them, unsure of whether to feel relieved or unsettled by the familiar setting, whether to be happy about not dying in the hands of a psychotic clown or weep in pain at the prospect of starting high school. It was truly a dilemma.

“At least no fucking Bowers this year,” he said as they got off their bikes, “with that fucking psycho going to jail and all.”

His friends were quiet for a moment, and he tried to not take it personally. They had been doing that often since they had defeated It, Richie seemed to be the only one who coped with jokes that got worse and worse every time. After the silence, Eddie asked, with a quiet and unsure voice, “You think… you think that was _ It?” _ He turned to his friends, looking as if he had heard from someone that girls really had cooties; confused and just a little on edge. “You think… that would have still happened if It never existed? If he would still…” he licked his lips nervously, he often did so when he was feeling anxious, “...if he would still kill his dad?”

“I d-don't know, Eddie,” Bill replied grimly. He had taken on an almost adult-like, mature look during the last month of summer, and whilst Richie used to take pride in the fact that he could understand Bill the best out of everyone else in the group, that had changed since summer. It was agitating. Richie walked quickly to stand in front of his friends, his arms open.

“Bowers was a fucking _ bully,” _he said, annoyed. “You remember what he did to Ben, don't you? I don't think that was caused by a fucking clown, thank you very much.” He fixed his glasses roughly. “He got what he deserved. He almost fucking killed Mike. Multiple times.” Mike’s expression darkened, but he didn't disagree with Richie. “He almost killed all of us, he harassed Bev, he—” Richie cut himself off, for once shutting his mouth before regretting everything that spilled out of it.

“He, _ what?” _Stanley asked, quirking a brow at him.

“H-he was just a piece of shit!” Richie concluded, his skin felt slightly warm around the edges, irritated. “He was just an asshole and he didn't deserve to live freely after the things he did. Yeah.”

There were a lot of things Richie Tozier didn't say out loud, despite his reputation of a loudmouth. There were a lot of things he didn't tell anyone, not even to his closest friends, such as the incident at the arcade months ago, making him feel sick to his stomach to even think about. The way he had felt when the boy had smiled at him, the way his eyes had shifted so easily and quickly upon spotting Bowers, the words that had haunted him for days, weeks, months. Richie kept some things to himself, never allowing them to escape his mouth. It was easier than what many people would think.

“N-no one’s, s-say-saying that he did, Rich,” Bill said quietly, putting a hand on Richie’s shoulder. A part of him wanted to shake it off, but he didn't. “We’re j-just all very sh-shaken up, still.”

Richie looked down, frowning. “Yeah, I know.”

Perhaps it had been foolish of him to expect everything to go back to normal, but he had _ hoped _that with the new year of school awaiting them just behind the gates, they would be fine. He didn't want to accept that they had all grown, in different ways but grown nonetheless.

Eddie stayed behind as the rest of their friends started walking towards the school, putting a hand on Richie’s shoulder. It didn't bother him as much as Bill’s. “You need to calm down, asshole,” he said, but his tone was soft. _ It’ll be okay. _Richie shrugged it off with a half-smile, concealing it the best he could. 

“Yeah? How about you suck my dick, Eds?” He had to admit that it wasn't one of his funniest comebacks, but it was something.

“Don't call me that,” Eddie said out of reflex, but his heart didn't seem in it anymore, after so many years. Richie just pushed him in the direction of the gates, chuckling at the way Eddie grunted annoyedly, trying to push him off. 

—

Richie went back to their clubhouse every now and then, without the rest of his friends, just to sink in the memories of summer and let his mind rest a little. None of his friends really wanted to visit it anymore, with the weather growing colder and the absence of Beverly getting clearer and clearer, the realisation of her not returning any time soon finally setting in. He laid on the hammock, listening to the sounds of nature above, thinking of the times they had spent in the cramped place. He couldn't help but smile as he recalled Eddie trying to shove him off the hammock with loud protests of “Everyone gets ten minutes, Tozier!” and ultimately being too small and weak to do so, eventually settling next to him on the old hammock, his added weight making it sag lower.

He could remember Beverely with a cigarette between her fingers, sitting at the corner and smiling at them like they were the only family she had ever known. Perhaps they were, or had been at some point. He wondered why she hadn't called, why she hadn't stayed in contact like she had promised. Maybe she had found new friends in Portland, people who treated her the way she deserved to be treated. Richie felt himself grow slightly jealous and bitter. Perhaps this was what was best for Beverly, but he didn't think it would be so easy to forget about their memories, just put them in a box and shove it under the bed. He didn't think they deserved to be ignored after the things they had gone through together.

Ben seemed like he had accepted Beverly’s absence, like he still reminisced about their brief friendship but had known that she would grow distant once out of Derry from the start. He brought her up, at times, always talking about how he missed her and hoped she was doing well.

Bill, on the other hand, was handling it worse. He didn't speak of Beverly and got upset when anyone else did, like he was forcing himself to forget about her without trying to accept that she had left their lives. It was sad, painful, but inevitable. Stanley had once asked if they’d all be friends after middle school, when they were adults leading their own, independent lives, and they had said yes without thinking twice about it, the answer coming easily to them. Now that he was alone with his thoughts in the clubhouse, Richie couldn't be so sure of the answer anymore. 

“What are you doing here, dickhead?” He snapped his head up to spot Eddie climbing down the steps, careful as always. “God, this place is full of germs and lord knows what else. It’s disgusting.”

Richie grinned. “I was just thinking of your mom, vagina face. You know I need to be alone when I do that.” He chuckled when Eddie tried to shove him off the hammock.

“Real fucking mature, Rich,” he said as he surrendered to his fate and just jumped on the hammock with him, his feet in Richie’s face. It all felt so familiar. He nudged Richie’s glasses with his socked feet. “Why do you keep coming down here? You’re going to get sick.”

Richie pushed his feet off his face, keeping one hand on his leg afterwards. Eddie didn't seem to mind. “I’m not you, Eds, I’m not scared of catching a cold or poison ivy.”

Eddie’s face visibly paled as he shuffled uncomfortably on the hammock. “There’s poison ivy around here?”

“No, dumbass, I’m just fucking with you.”

Eddie relaxed a little, but being slightly anxious at all times was something he had grown accustomed to, it came to him as naturally as breathing. Richie wondered if he still took his asthma medicine, knowing it was a ‘gazebo’. “For real, though, why do you keep coming down here? Didn't think you’d be able to keep your mouth shut for even two seconds.” _ Are you okay? _

Richie contemplated making a joke as to not give a real answer, like he had been doing to cope with everything in his life thus far. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling of the clubhouse. “I come here to think,” he answered honestly, quietly.

_ “Think? _ Richie Tozier _ thinks? _I don't think I saw a flying pig today.”

Richie shoved him with his foot, making him chuckle. “I was thinking about how you could be a decent person for once in your fucking life, but I guess I was wrong.”

Eddie’s grin remained in place, but it was dimmer now, calmer. After a while of comfortable silence, he asked, “What do you really think about?”

“You gonna’ make fun of me again, dipshit?” Eddie smiled, shaking his head. Richie closed his eyes for a moment. “Just stuff, I guess. Whatever comes to my mind.”

Eddie was quiet again, but his silence wasn't suffocating. By nature he was more timid than most of them, but his silences were never out of hesitance; not with Richie. “Do you think about It?” 

“Sometimes,” Richie answered, shrugging. “Not always. I try not to, we killed It, didn't we? It’s weird if I keep thinking about that stuff.” He paused for a moment. “I mostly think about Bev.”

Eddie grinned. “You had a crush on her, Tozier?” he teased. It somehow irritated Richie a tiny bit, the closeness of his friendship with Beverly being mistaken for something else was an annoying thought.

“She’s like my sister, dumbass,” he replied, unable to hide his grin. “Oh, sorry, forgot that you’re into that kinda shit. Fucking perv.”

“You have no right to call me a perv when you hide a shit ton of porn magazines under your bed, Rich,” Eddie shot back, trying to look mad yet seeming anything but. “Really, I’m like a saint compared to you.”

“You molest kids? Wow, never thought you’d sink this low, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie had his eyes closed, resting his head on the filthy hammock. “Beep beep, Richie,” he said softly. Richie felt himself tense up a little, the phrase clear as day in his head with the way It had uttered it. He tried to not let it show, but Eddie knew him too well. His eyes fluttered open slowly. “Sorry,” he muttered, quiet, “does it still bother you?”

“No…” Richie responded, throwing one feet off the hammock to kick at some rocks. He could see Eddie’s unconvinced expression out of the corner of his eye. “It’s just… I don't fucking know, man, it feels weird. I know we’re all just trying to forget about it, and I guess so am I, but it’s just…” He let out a sigh, frustrated. He’d never been good at expressing his thoughts or feelings, he didn't know how Ben and Stanley did it so casually. The knowledge that Eddie wasn't really good at that stuff either helped, he didn't feel like there was something wrong with him.

“Yeah, it _ is _weird,” Eddie agreed, absentmindedly tracing the pattern on the hammock. “It just ended really quickly, I guess. One moment we thought we wouldn't make it out alive, the next moment we’re going to school again.”

“Yeah,” Richie muttered, dull, “it was summer, we were—”

“Supposed to be having fun outside?” Eddie finished for him teasingly. “I thought Billy would sock you in the face again for saying that ever again.”

“I thought _ I _was the one who threw the first punch, being the macho man that I am.” He flexed his nonexistent muscles, hyper aware of the skinniness of his arms. For once, Eddie didn't seem to catch it.

“There’s no way that’s how it happened,” he teased. “Bev told me that you were screaming like a little bitch.”

“Clearly she was lying. She was probably trying to hide her crush on me.”

Eddie nudged him again, chuckling the way he usually did with his shoulders drawn up, his nose scrunching a little. Richie was nowhere near as tall or broad or strong as most of his peers, but it was hard to believe Eddie was fourteen. He wasn't delicate like his mother had forced him to believe for so long, but he was small, cute. Pocket sized. “Dude, that’s how you talk about your sister? Fucking gross.”

“I can see your boner from here, Kaspbrak, stop lying to yourself.”

Eddie made a noise between a chortle and a gag, before kicking him in the shin hard enough for it to hurt slightly. Richie pulled it close to his chest, his face scrunching up and his mouth hanging open, before they both started giggling.

Eddie was quiet for yet another moment, Richie could tell that there was something on his mind he wanted to talk about. He didn't seem exactly hesitant, not of Richie’s reaction anyway, but he seemed reluctant to say it nonetheless. “Do you think we’ll be friends in the future?” he asked quietly, not looking at Richie. It was weird for him to ask a question like that, since he often got overwhelmed and anxious thinking about the unpredictable nature of the future. Stanley asked that kind of question, Ben did, Beverly did, but not Eddie. “I don't know about the rest of the guys, but… you and I?” He looked almost shy, anxious. Richie frowned. “I mean, Bev left. Mike says he wants to go to Florida for whatever reason, Ben is probably going to New York or some other shit like that. Stanley will probably get into a good school, Bill… I don't know yet, but he’ll probably be successful as well. I don't think I could ever leave this fucking town with my mom breathing down my neck like that.” He repositioned his feet on Richie’s abdomen and knocked the breath out of him for a second, frowning. “I don't know what I’ll do without you guys, it’s fucking annoying.”

Richie took in his friend’s features for a moment, watching him carefully. They didn't often have conversations like this; grim and quiet. But he found himself enjoying it nonetheless; the reluctant look on Eddie’s face, the way his tone softened when he was being serious for a fleeting moment. Richie didn't know how to comfort people, but he knew how to reflect the truth in his jokes, sometimes way too transparently. 

He pressed at a spot on the sole of Eddie’s foot, making him draw it back immediately with a surprised squeak. “It’s cute that you think you can return me to the clown museum without the receipt,” he teased. _ Forever. _

—

Being a freshman wasn't pleasant in the grand scheme of things; despite the cooing of adults about how they were 'big kids' now that they were in high school, Richie didn't feel any bigger. He felt small compared to the seniors, even the sophomores. It didn't help that everyone else seemed more grown-up after the three months of summer they had spent out of school, most boys getting taller by multiple inches and most girls developing their curves. He looked into the mirror and still saw the small, scrawny, annoying kid from middle school, the one who never shut his mouth despite annoying everyone, the one who got beaten up and teased constantly. Beverly had once told him that he would grow into his looks, but he couldn't help but doubt her.

Manoeuvring through the halls of his school by himself for once, he held onto the strap of his backpack to keep it from being shoved off his shoulder with how much people were bumping into him. Richie couldn't help but wonder if it was deliberate. He wondered, with a grim and anxious feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, if even the kids he didn't know hated him so much that they were knowingly trying to shove him down, only to curse at him or laugh in his face. He held the strap tighter.

Music. Music class was alright, as long as he painfully tried to keep his mouth shut. He didn't know anyone in the class and wasn't exactly planning on making any new friends, so he kept to himself. They didn't do much, very few of the kids actually knew how to play anything, thus those forty-five minutes were usually filled with ear-bleeding noises from the guitars, drums, xylophones and overall the screeching of kids that were barely teenagers. Richie stayed at the back of the classroom, put his headphones over his ears, concealing it with his hoodie and his head ducked slightly, and pressed play on his walkman. _ Help! _by The Beatles. 

He didn't quite fall asleep for the duration of the class, but he let his mind wander away from the unholy sounds of the instruments sounding like they were being sacrificed. He didn't realise how quickly the time had passed until he saw the rest of the kids sling their backpacks over their shoulders, chatting amongst each other as they left the classroom in groups. Richie picked up his bag from where it was thrown on the floor and tried to not draw much attention to himself as he trailed after his classmates.

“Mr Tozier?” He froze in his spot upon hearing Mrs Andrews call after him. “Could you stay for a moment, please?” He shut his eyes tightly and let out a sigh, wondering if he would finally lose his walkman, and turned around. To his surprise, Mrs Andrews wasn't frowning. “I just wanted to talk to you for a bit. Come here, please.” 

Richie threw one final glance at the last of his classmates leaving the room and approached her desk hesitantly. He didn't know much about Mrs Andrews other than the fact that she was young and new at the school, with the optimism of barely-experienced teachers still hanging onto her. “Is there something wrong, miss?”

“No, no, that’s not it,” she reassured as she shuffled some sheets of paper on her desk before taking a seat. Richie chose to stay on his feet. “I just noticed that you must really like music, I haven't seen you without your walkman since the first day of school.” Her smile was gentle but Richie could feel his skin crawl with anxiety. He ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“No, it’s alright,” Mrs Andrews said then, craning her neck slightly to get a good look at his face. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but he kept his mouth shut. “As you might be able to see, I’m not really good at teaching,” she said, a self-deprecating laugh blowing out of her mouth. Richie didn't feel the need to disagree, it seemed pointless, “but I think it’s wonderful that you’re actually interested in music. What were you listening to?”

“I’m not really,” Richie said quickly, trying to stomp on any spark of interest a teacher would have on him. Then, he quietly added, “The Beatles.”

“The Beatles!” Mrs Andrews echoed. “How lovely! Do you like vintage music, Richard?”

“J-just Richie is fine, miss,” he said quietly. “And I mean, yeah, I guess. I listen to anything I like, I don’t really care about the genre or anything as long as I like it.”

She nodded, resting her chin in her hand. “Well, do you play any instruments, Richie? I never see you messing with them in class.” 

Richie flushed, balling up the hem of his hoodie in his fist to ground himself a little, his shoulders drawn up. “No, I— I mean, I would like to learn how to play the guitar, I guess, but I never had the chance.”

Her eyes seemed to glimmer with mirth, sparking something uncomfortable and sour in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't often that adults looked pleased to see him, by something he did or said. “Well, I’m just really happy to hear that, Richie,” she said, leaning forward in her seat slightly with her eyes wide with glee, her eyelashes black and almost reaching her brows. “I was wondering if you would like me to teach you. I can play the guitar pretty well.”

Richie felt himself tense up. “N-no, it’s okay.” Mr Andrews’ face fell slightly, but it was still gentle.

“Are you sure?” she questioned with a quirked brow. “I think you would be wonderful at it, I see that potential in you.” She cocked her head to the side a little, looking up at Richie with a knowing look in her eyes, and it was weird to feel so out in the open, like she could read his mind with a simple glance. He shuffled in his place in discomfort. “Think about it, okay? I won't press if you don't change your mind, but I highly recommend trying it out.” She smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, it was meant to be a reassuring gesture but Richie didn't quite know how to feel about it. “I think you can do great things if you put some effort into it, Richie,” she said, her tone was soft and gentle. It was overwhelming.

“I-I’ll think about it,” he replied, nodding and averting his eyes. Mrs Andrews seemed pleased with his answer and pulled her hand back. Richie almost felt like he could breathe again.

“Thank you, Richie,” she said with a genuine gratefulness in her tone, and he simply nodded again, pressing his lips together. “Well, that’ll be all. You can leave now.”

She didn't have to say it again before Richie was walking out of the classroom with the strap of his backpack held tight in his fist, ducking his head to find the way to his next class in urgency.

—

It was pouring rain outside as the boys lounged around in Bill’s basement, slightly shivering due to the rapidly cooling temperatures. Richie sat on the old armchair with his feet dangling off the armrest, a comic book clutched in his hands as he absentmindedly gazed at the pictures, not paying any particular attention to the the actual story and listening to the sounds surrounding him. Ben was doing his homework on the floor next to Eddie whose back was against the armchair Richie was sitting on, and Mike and Bill had their eyes glued to the video game on the TV whilst Stanley watched them play. Richie almost felt like Beverly would walk downstairs munching on some chips at any moment, but she never did.

His eyes trailed to Eddie sitting next to him on the floor, his gaze empty, looking at nothing in particular, observing, thinking. Eddie had a habit of going quiet when his mind was preoccupied with things, but Richie could only assume that they weren't pleasant. He nudged him with a knee, receiving a startled look before a lighthearted glare. He nodded to the comic and shuffled to make more room on the armchair. Eddie frowned in confusion for a moment before his face relaxed with understanding and he climbed up on the seat next to Richie. He took up far less space, with his small body curled into itself and his legs pulled to his chest. Richie looked at him for a moment, grinning when Eddie frowned again with confusion.

“What are you looking at, dipshit?” Eddie asked, but the corners of his lips were twitching upwards with a barely contained, amused grin. Richie had never quite realised how big his eyes were but he presumed it was because of how small his face was in comparison.

“Just admiring how cute you are,” he replied, meaning for it to sound cheeky and teasing, but it came out far more genuine than he had hoped. He pressed the uncomfortable feeling down and threw an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him close and trying to press a kiss to his cheek. “Give me a kiss, Eduardo!”

Eddie tried to shove him back by his chest, scrunching up his nose and craning his neck to try and get away from him, giggles bubbling out of his mouth. “Cut it out, Richie! I’m not fucking cute, dammit, I murdered a huge fucking clown!”

“Yeah, but you did it in the cutest way possible.” He managed to place a big wet kiss right on Eddie’s cheek, grinning with pride as his friend rubbed the spot with the back of his hand, a grimace on his face.

“You’re fucking gross, Tozier,” he grumbled. Richie felt his muscles lock up, his shoulders get tense, a pitiful feeling bubbling at the pit of his stomach.

_ Yeah, fucking gross. Disgusting. _

_ “ —God, _ Richie, do you have _ any _clue how much bacteria there is in the human mouth? It’s dirtier than a dog’s, it’s like—” Eddie cut himself off when he realised that Richie wasn't saying anything. His cute brows furrowed; everything about Eddie seemed small and cute, it was a wonder how he had managed to kill a demonic clown who had been ten times his size. He was adorable in the way his confusion melted into concern.

_ No, stop. Gross. _

“You okay, Rich?” Eddie questioned, his face closer and his voice quieter to keep the rest from hearing him. Richie felt his breath get stuck in his throat, something like bile rising up from his stomach towards his mouth. He managed to push it down and plaster on a crooked grin, pushing his glasses back.

“Yeah, just looked at you and got reminded of your mom. Felt like my soul was being sucked out of my body.”

It seemed to work, since Eddie’s expression shifted from concern to lighthearted annoyance in a matter of seconds. He rolled his eyes and made a move to get off the armchair but Richie wrapped an arm around his abdomen to pull him back, grinning at the way Eddie squeaked but didn't fight too much against it, like he believed that he just needed to look like he didn't enjoy their proximity. Like a cat. “Let me go, loser,” he grumbled, but there was no real heat to his tone.

“Aw, but I want to cuddle with my Eddie Bear,” he pouted, holding Eddie just a little tighter, who seemed to give up and just sit there with an unimpressed expression. Richie could see Mike rolling his eyes at them while Ben just smiled without looking up from his homework.

“You sound like my mom,” Eddie said, scrunching up his nose in distaste. A part of Richie wanted to coo at him, but he stopped himself.

Bill muttered a curse after dying in the game and turned towards them. “D-does your mom even know you’re h-here?”

“Of course not,” Eddie replied, scoffing. “You think she’d let me come over after what happened last summer? She thinks I’m studying with Chris.”

“Chris Zimmerman?” Richie questioned, an unfamiliar discomfort settling in his stomach. “The nerd from math class? Since when are you two friends?”

“Since school started,” Eddie replied, pouting. “He’s not a bad guy, kind of shy but he’s nice. _ You _of all people don't get to judge him for being a nerd, Rich.”

“Excuse me? I’m the manliest man that has ever manned,” Richie replied, pulling Eddie closer to himself and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Eddie grumbled but leaned into his hug anyway, once again sitting in the armchair with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins. He glanced at the comic in Richie’s hand, quirking a brow. “Wonder Woman?”

Stanley chuckled from where he was sitting on the floor. “That’s a bit gay, don't you think?”

Something stirred in Richie’s chest, something he never wanted to show others. Some type of anger, maybe even resentment, annoyance. “Yeah? Well at least I still have my entire dick, Stan,” he shot back, and whereas it would normally be considered playful banter between the six of them, his tone came out far angrier than he had meant it to. Stanley’s brows shot up, surprised, before an unamused frown overtook it.

“They didn't chop off my dick, Richie,” he said, like he had many times before, “they just cut off the extra skin. It’s for hygiene.”

“My dick is perfectly clean, thank you very much,” Richie replied, “don't need anyone to cut it off for me to know how to take a shower.”

Eddie grinned, leaning in closer and pressing his shoulder against Richie’s chest. “You sure about that, Rich?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. His eyes were so big. “I don't know if I believe you even know what a shower is.”

Richie felt something akin to the way he had felt at the arcade months ago, something confusing and anxiety-inducing and uncomfortable. He shoved it deep down with a choked out a laugh and a cheeky grin. “You might wanna get away from me then, Kaspbrak,” he said in a low voice, “who knows what kinda diseases I might have? I think my doctor said that I might have leprosy.”

“That’s impossible,” Eddie replied, but he seemed a little more tense nonetheless. “Y-you’d have your skin falling off and stuff, you’d be quarantined as soon as they figured it out!”

“Isn't it only _ mildly _ contagious?” Stanley mused, grinning when Eddie’s panicked gaze was settled on him.

“Shut up, I hate all of you,” Eddie muttered, making himself smaller, and Richie could only chuckle in amusement as he went back to his comic with his friend reading with him. He found himself even more unable to focus with Eddie next to him, breathing calmly with his eyes traveling between the speech bubbles. Richie couldn't help but throw curious glances at him every now and then, settling on the crease between his brows. A part of him wanted to reach and poke at the spot to stop him from frowning.

“Hey,” he said after a while, quiet and soft. Eddie’s gaze found his. Richie ducked his head. “Mrs Andrews talked to me about something the other day.”

Eddie cocked his head to the side. “Mrs Andrews? The music teacher?” He then grinned, nudging Richie with his elbow. “What, does she want to kick you out of the school for being a nuisance in class? Wouldn't be the first time.”

“No, it’s not that.” Eddie’s grin dimmed a little when he saw the unsure expression on Richie’s face. “She wants to teach me how to play the guitar. Some sort of a private lesson type of thing, I don't know. She says that ‘it’s nice how I’m so interested in music.’” He scoffed.

“Well, you _ are, _aren't you?” Richie turned to look at Eddie to see him with a quirked brow. “You have more band shirts than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Richie tried to argue, but his resolve was starting to crumble with the way Eddie was looking at him; careful, encouraging, slightly hesitant but sure.

“How so?” he asked. “You like music, don't you? I don't see why you wouldn't want to learn.” He paused for a moment. “You can sing too.”

Richie’s eyes widened and he threw a glance at his friends to see if any of them were paying attention to the two of them, if they had been listening carefully enough to hear their semi-hushed conversation. “Don't talk about that,” he muttered seriously. He had never mentioned his love for singing, he had never sang in front of anyone. Except for Eddie, who rolled his eyes as he let out a sigh, before grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him towards the stairs leading up to the first floor.

“We’re gonna go get something to eat, you guys want anything?” he asked, leaving after the muttered out refusals. Richie wanted to yank his wrist from out of the tight grip Eddie’s small hand, but he kept it where it was as well as his mouth shut.

As soon as they were out of the basement and in the kitchen Eddie jumped on one of the barstools, crossing his legs at the ankles. “You’re being dumb as fuck,” was the first thing he said.

Richie frowned. “Am not,” he shot back. “I don't wanna seem like a… a _ poof, _ okay? That’s what everyone thinks when they see a guy who sings, I’m not… like _ that.” _

Eddie seemed frustrated with him, but for his credit he didn't yell at Richie, who had to give him credit for his patience. “And?” he asked, quirking a brow. “Most of your favourite bands are made up of guys, aren't they? Why would anyone think that?”

“They… they just _ do.” _Richie replied, suddenly defensive. “I’m trying to fuck chicks, man, I don't want people thinking I’m into anything else.” Somehow the sentence felt heavy on his tongue.

Eddie scrunched up his nose. “Gross.” _ Guys or girls? _ “But people find musicians hot, right?” _ Guys or girls, Eddie? _“I bet that shit would blow people’s minds in college or something.”

Richie scoffed. “What, am I supposed to be one of those fucktards singing the same two songs in front of a campfire?” He dropped his eyelids and pretended that there was a guitar in his hands. “‘Ladies and gentlemen, this song is about a girl who didn't like the shape of my dick. It’s a minute long because I don't know how to write songs.’”

Eddie chuckled, his nose scrunching up and his shoulders drawn up. Richie momentarily let go of his air-guitar. “No, you idiot,” he said, still smiling. “You could make your own band or something. It’d be cool. Not that you’d know what that means.”

“Aw, do you find musicians cool, Eds?” he asked teasingly, trying to stomp on the spark of hope lighting up in his chest. It was stupid, gross, dirty. He hoped his voice wouldn't betray him.

Eddie rolled his eyes, but there seemed to be a light blush blooming underneath his skin. “Who doesn't?” he deflected the question. “Whatever, I just think you should do it.”

—

The next time Richie had a class with Mrs Andrews he reluctantly approached her after everyone else had left, and told her with a quiet voice that he would like to try it out after all. He didn't want to feel hopeful when she grinned widely in barely contained excitement, but felt the little sparks nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 2

“Good!” Mrs Andrews exclaimed when Richie managed to hit multiple chords in the right order without too much of a delay between them, her excited grin in place as always. “You’re doing so good, Richie! You learn so quickly!”

Richie knew that that wasn't necessarily true; he couldn't practise at home since he didn't own a guitar and felt reluctant to ask his parents for one, he couldn't actually play a song to its full extent quite right just yet and he could barely focus on her explanations for an extended period of time, but the smile on Mrs Andrews’ face managed to make him smile a little too, feeling hopeful at his small improvement. 

They had been having lessons for little over a week, and he knew that his friends were getting slightly suspicious whenever he mentioned he couldn't hang out with them due to some type of school stuff; except for Eddie, who gave him a secretive smile whenever he could. It somehow made him feel better, knowing there was someone who, despite the teasing and the jokes, was at least a little proud of him. He still felt reluctant to show anything he’d learned to Eddie, who kept asking to hear since he was ‘curious about how much he sucked’ but he at least knew that when he eventually did, he would be greeted with his friend trying to stifle a proud smile while making fun of him.

“I think you’ll be really good if you keep practising like this.” Mrs Andrews often said that, repeating over and over again how important practise was for improvement — “Practise makes perfect!” she kept saying in a chipper voice — and he couldn't help but wonder if she was right.

His eyes wandered towards the clock hanging on the wall and his shoulders tensed up. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, trying to cover it up with a fake cough when Mrs Andrews gave him a disapproving look. He carefully placed the guitar on the ground. “I think I need to go, my mom is probably about to eat her own hair from worry.” He placed a hand on his waist and tried to impersonate the angry look she had on her face sometimes; with the corners of her lips turned downwards but her face unreadable. He doubted it looked similar. “‘Richard Tozier,’” he said in a shrill voice, index finger in the air, “‘how many times do I need to tell you to be home before six unless you inform me beforehand? Your father would be furious!’” He then let his hand drop back to his side. “He wouldn't really, he used to be worse when he was my age.”

Mrs Andrews smiled. Richie wondered if she had ever stopped in the first place. “You’re good at impersonations,” she complimented. “I thought I just saw Mrs Tozier in the flesh. Terrifying.”

Richie grinned. “Dad likes ‘em,” he said simply, “he joins in sometimes. It’s really funny when he tries to imitate people ‘cause he really has no idea how to do it.” He glanced at the clock again. “Okay, I really need to go. Thank you, Mrs Andrews!” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and rushed out of the classroom before she could give a reply, running through the corridors and out of the gates in a matter of seconds. He clumsily slid his headphones over his ears and pressed play on whatever was in his walkman. _ Queen. _

October had really beaten summer into submission; chilly winds bit his cheeks as he hopped on his bike and started pedaling towards his house. It was a bit farther away, he needed to pass Stanley, Mike and Ben’s houses before even coming close to his own, but he didn't mind it much. Summer had been far hotter than the year before, he felt sweat beading at the nape of his neck with just the thought of it. It had started becoming hazy and disoriented the more he thought about; the traumatic experiences and the life threatening dangers, like they had never really happened in reality but consisted of a very long dream he’d had in the middle of a particularly hot night. Ben had called it repression once, had told him that his brain was simply trying to downplay the events as to keep him calm, but he didn't think it was really downplaying it. He could still remember the terror he’d felt; the horror of seeing Beverly hanging six feet in the air, the panic of losing Eddie in that old house only to find him scared half to death with his arm bent at an impossible angle, the anxiety he’d felt when Mike had been trying to fight for his life against Bowers. He felt a shiver go down his spine. His brain didn't really downplay the events, but it did seem like it was slowly trying to delete everything one by one. He wasn't sure if it made him feel anxious or relieved. 

He was coming near the gas station when he spotted Stanley, who seemed to have had spotted him back, coming out of the sliding doors with a plastic bag hanging from his wrist. He gave him a surprised look, his cheeks already flushed by the sudden drop in temperature. “You still out, Richie?” he asked when Richie was planning on just giving him a brief greeting, making him cease pedaling to stop in front of him. “What were you up to?”

Richie felt his cheeks heat up slightly, but he could simply blame the cold for that. “Oh, you know,” he replied nervously, “just some school stuff.”

Stanley looked unconvinced by his response, a brow quirking in question before a smirk settled on his face. “You sure?” he asked, teasing, and Richie had to frown in confusion. “You weren't at the Kissing Bridge or anything, right?”

Richie scoffed. “Okay, you got me,” he said, faking exasperation and barely holding back his laughter when Stanley’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “I was there with your mom, Stan. Happy now?” He let out a full body guaff at the unimpressed look on Stanley’s face.

“Real funny, Rich,” he said, deadpan. “For real, what were you up to?”

“I told you, it’s just some boring school shit,” Richie replied, trying to make his voice as stable and nonchalant as possible. “Mr War_dick _ wanted me to stay a bit late ‘cause I was being fucking awesome during class and he couldn't handle it. Had to write ‘I won't disturb the lessons’ like a bajillion times.”

Stanley, to his credit, looked a bit more convinced as he nodded. “That guy is really annoying,” he agreed, “not that you’re that great either.”

“I’m a fucking delight to be around,” Richie shot back. He checked his watch and felt anxiety bubble in his stomach. “Shit, I really need to get home. It was fucking horrible seeing you, Stan!” He started pedaling again as Stanley flipped him off behind his back.

It was starting to get dark by the time he reached his front porch, the oncoming winter dragging sunlight down with every day that passed, some of the houses had begun turning on their lights. Richie prayed his mother wasn't in the kitchen as he entered his house, hoping to be able to pass by easily and slip into his room, but he should have known he wasn't a particularly lucky person after that summer.

“Richie?” his mother called from the kitchen as soon as he closed the front door behind him, making him freeze in his spot. 

He let out a sigh. “Yeah, mom?”

“What time is it, dear?”

He hummed like he was unsure. “Four, maybe? The weather has been crazy lately, it starts getting dark at like one in the afternoon. Maybe it’s that global warming thing they’re talking about.”

His father entered the room with a light chuckle huffing out of his mouth. “Leave the boy alone, honey,” he said, holding Richie by the shoulder like a poster of the ideal father figure, “let boys be boys. Richie over here should be able to stay out until later so he can learn how to take care of himself when he’s an adult. What is he supposed to do when he’s a man and wants to go out with his friends at night?”

Richie tried to force a smile on his face, he wondered if he would be the accompanying ideal son in the poster. He presumed not. “See, mom? Dad says it’s alright.”

His mother came out of the kitchen, using her skirt as a towel to dry her hands as she scowled at both of them. “When he’s an adult, he can do whatever he wants,” she replied. “After all of those missing cases that happened last summer he’s lucky I even let him out at all.”

Richie helplessly looked at his father for a reply, who simply shrugged and patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, flutter bum, I tried.”

“Dad, what does that even _ mean?” _

—

“I hate these stupid fucking things,” Richie complained as he tried to shield his glasses from the raindrops, failing miserably and partially losing his sight. “I should be able to _ see _ with them on, but they don't do _ shit. _They’re ugly as fuck too.”

Eddie took a look at his glasses and shrugged. He was bundled up in layers of thick clothing despite it being still early October, not particularly appropriate for what Richie could count as two sweaters and a windbreaker on top, the hood far too big for him. Apparently his mother had fussed about him catching hypothermia, scaring Eddie half to death in the process. “I couldn't imagine you without glasses, though,” he simply said. “You won't be four-eyes anymore, what are we supposed to call you then?”

Richie scoffed. “You have, like, ten billion other ways to bully me, Eds, don't think you need an extra nickname.”

“Don't call me that,” Eddie said on reflex. “Give ‘em to me for a second, I want to try ‘em on.”

“They’re prescription and thick as fuck, you wouldn't be able to see shit,” Richie muttered while taking his glasses off to hand them to Eddie. Everything became a blurry mess instantly, but he could still make out the vague shape and bright blue colour of Eddie’s windbreaker.

“How do I look?” his friend asked. “Wow, what are you, a bat? I think I’m going to puke.”

Richie squinted and got closer in order to see him better; the glasses sit crooked on the bridge of his nose and they were far too big for his small face, but it was a pleasant sight. He could faintly see Eddie blinking rapidly in order to get used to the strange and new view. “I don't fucking know, Eds, I can't _ see.” _It was only a half lie, he was starting to feel pangs of pain in his skull due to squinting.

Eddie scoffed and handed them back to him. “You look so strange without your glasses,” he commented as Richie slid them back on the bridge of his nose. “Your eyes look so _tiny.” _

“Fuck off, asshole, not all of us can look like a pretty lil’ doll all the time.”

Eddie shoved him on the shoulder. “Shut up, Tozier.” He paused for a moment as Richie fixed his glasses on the bridge of his nose with a gleeful smile on his face. “Your glasses look fine.”

Richie quirked a brow, once again reaching up to wipe the lenses hastily. “We both know they’re just a pair of ugly pieces of shit,” he countered, “I swear I’m getting contact lenses when I’m eighteen.”

_ “You’re _the ugly piece of shit, don't blame the glasses,” Eddie shot back, a grin on his face. Then it dimmed slightly. “For real, though, they look fine. You look fine.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do they even make contact lenses as thick as a jar bottom?”

“They better do, or else I’m just gonna shove these fucking lenses into my eyes and hope for the best.” He made an act of pressing his glasses to his face, mimicking a scream of agony. Eddie smiled.

“I don't think I could ever get used to your eyes not being the size of two basketballs, might as well keep them. You know, to spare us the agony.” Richie had gotten used to the teasing lilt to Eddie’s tone over the years, he knew what he really meant when he spoke. _ I like your glasses. _

“Well, if my Eddie Bear likes them so much,” he cooed, making a show out of reaching for his hand while his friend withdrew it with a click of his tongue.

“You’re literally so fucking annoying, how do I deal with you?” 

Richie grinned. “Yeah? Well you can't give me away any time soon, sugarplum, might as well deal with it.”

“You wanna fucking bet?” Eddie shot back, his grin growing larger and larger. A part of Richie wanted to coo at him again, but realised just how out of place it would be. He almost tripped over a rock as they were walking.

He grinned, but it felt strained somehow. “Let’s go, you fucking midget.”

—

“Le-let’s go jump off the c-c-cliff again,” Bill blurted out in the middle of lunch. The rest of them got quiet upon hearing that, Richie stared at him blankly with his sandwich halfway up to his mouth.

“It’s literally October,” Eddie said, frowning. “You want us to get hypothermia, Billy? Is that what you want? Because we have almost a hundred-percent chance of freezing to death, or… or losing a limb or two!”

“I don't usually agree with Eddie on stuff like this, but he might be right this time,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I mean, not the losing limbs stuff, but we could catch a cold.”

“Y-yeah, I think so too,” Stanley muttered.

Bill shrugged. “S-so what? You’ll mi-miss a couple days of s-s-school, is that s-so bad?”

“No, _ dying _is bad,” Eddie replied slowly. “Do you have any idea how awful it would be to freeze to death? All slow and sluggish.” A tremor passed through his body.

Stanley grimaced. “I mean, we wouldn't _ die—” _

“I reckon burning to death would be more painful,” Richie added unhelpfully. He inched his face closer to Eddie’s and grimaced. “Imagine your skin melting right off your bones, Eds. Looking like grilled cheese.” He pulled his cheeks down to mimic the look of a melting face, making soft grunts like a zombie at the same time. Eddie seemed unimpressed.

“R-real funny, Rich,” he muttered, but he seemed a little more tense than before. “Anyway, I’m not—”

“I think we should do it,” Ben said suddenly, cutting him off. Richie let go of his face to give him a confused look like the rest of his friends. Ben simply shrugged. “It’s been a while since we did it, and it was fun. I’m down if everyone else is.”

“Um, hello?!” Eddie exclaimed, almost dropping his apple amidst his exaggerated hand motions. “Hypothermia? It’s a real thing? Does literally _ no one _ but _ me _care about the potential danger we would be putting our lives in? N-not to mention how high the cliff was!”

“You-you jumped off just fine l-last time,” Bill replied, and Eddie’s mouth opened and closed uselessly.

Richie shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Eddie turned to him with wide eyes, gaping. “Richie!” he exclaimed with betrayal, and Richie only stuck his tongue out at him. “No, _ absolutely _ not. There’s literally _ nothing _on this goddamn earth you can do to convince me.”

“I’ll stop calling you Eds, how about that?” Richie offered, and Eddie’s eyes immediately squinted with suspicion. 

“You’re lying,” he said matter-of-factly, “you would never do that. Why would you? You know it annoys me.”

“Are you just going to pass up the opportunity?” 

Eddie glared at him for a beat before finally letting out a huff. “Fine, but if I die due to hypothermia I _ will _haunt all of you.”

That’s how they found themselves on top of the hill once again, the weather much different than the last time they had visited. They stood there with anxiety bubbling in their stomachs like the first time despite Bill and Ben’s previous courage. Richie half expected Beverly to appear out of thin air, make fun of them for not being ‘man enough’ and push past them to dive into the cold waters without a second thought, but it was only them and the murky waters, wind howling in their ears and seeping into their bones. 

“You should do it first, Bill,” Stanley said, taking a step back. “You were the one who suggested it.”

“I-it looks cold,” Eddie muttered, shivering even in his sweater. Richie had never really realised how skinny he was before seeing him drowning in the wool. 

“Ah, fuck it,” he said as he took a step forward. “I mean, in the worst case scenario I’ll die, right? It’s not like death is a foreign concept to us.” He felt goosebumps appear on his skin as soon as he took his jacket off but he didn't stop stripping until he was in his underwear, trying to suppress the shivers that wrecked through his body. He threw another glance at the water that seemed even farther away before throwing his glasses on the pile of clothes. He took a few tentative steps towards the edge, his arms around his torso. He then felt a pair of hands on his back shoving him forward harshly and then he was falling, only able to let out a sudden shriek of surprise before his body hit the freezing water.

He gasped for air upon taking his head out, his body tensing up due to the temperature. “Who the _ fuck _did that?” He splashed around the water for a bit, trying not to make the chattering of his teeth obvious. “Are you dickheads coming or not?!” he yelled. He could faintly see his friends give each other hesitant looks before ridding themselves of their clothes as well. One by one — with Mike first, followed by Bill and the rest — they dove into the waters. At the end only Eddie was left with his clothes still on his body, staring at them from the edge.

“Y-you coming, Kaspbrak?” Bill yelled.

“I-I might be having second thoughts!” Eddie responded, and Richie frowned. 

“Come on, Eds, our deal is off if you don't jump!” He couldn't see Eddie’s expression due to the distance and his lack of glasses, but he could swear he scowled a little before tentatively taking his sweater and jeans off, screaming at them about how much he hated each and every one of them. “You’ll really freeze to death if you don't get moving!” Richie yelled when Eddie stood there once again, now only in his underwear, his arms still around himself. And then after a moment of hesitation, he shut his eyes tightly and let his body fall off the edge.

When he stuck his head out of the water he was gasping like he had been drowned, pressing the heels of his hands into his closed eyelids and trying to mutter out unintelligible words as his teeth chattered. “I-I h-ha-hate you a-all.”

“How’s the water, _ Eds?” _Richie asked with a grin, deciding that the frown on Eddie’s face worth hypothermia. 

“You’re a-a fucking l-liar, Tozier,” he managed out, gasping when Richie splashed water on him. Now that his body was getting numb due to the temperature, he didn't feel all that cold. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try, sweetie.”

And they were having fun in the freezing waters soon enough; trying to shove and drown each other, splashing water everywhere and not particularly caring even when their lips started turning blue. It was after they started losing feeling in their limbs when they finally dragged themselves out of the water and onto the cold dirt, the wind blowing hard enough to make tremors go through their bodies. Mike took out a couple of blankets out of his backpack and handed them over to his shivering friends.

“This w-was the fucking _ w-worst,” _ Eddie said, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and sinking on the ground, curling into himself to retain some body heat. “I’m never listening to you ever again, you’re all dead to me.”

Richie sat down next to him, cursing at himself for leaving his glasses at the top of the hill. “Well, didn't you have fun?”

Eddie frowned but didn't give him an answer; quietly pouting to himself. 

—

Richie stared at the ceiling and unsuccessfully tried to breathe in through his blocked nose, scowling to himself; it was extremely unfair that out of everyone in their friend group, he was the only one who had left the cliff with a cold that would not pass for days. He didn't feel like playing video games, lounging on the couch in the living room and watching whatever was being shown, he didn't even particularly want to talk with his sore throat. He was frustrated that he couldn't even step foot out of the bed without his mother hanging around him like a vulture. He hoped Mrs Andrews wasn't too upset about him missing their usual practise time after school.

“Richie, sweetheart, do you want anything to eat?” his mother called from downstairs. He opened his mouth and frowned when his voice took a moment to be above a barely-there whisper.

“No, mom,” he tried to yell back, his throat scratchy and sore. He vaguely thought that he didn't even quite sound like himself. He hoped she’d heard him instead of coming all the way upstairs to repeat the question. He felt slightly pathetic at being bed-bound so easily. _ Fucking Bill and his stupid fucking ideas. _

He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep, darkness coming easy to his over-exhausted body but his mind still on overdrive from the pent up energy left in his system without any means to dispose of it. He would usually take it out on Eddie or Stanley when he was feeling exceptionally socially energetic, but they were supposed to be at school, and talking to the poster of Buddy Holly didn't seem particularly entertaining. He shifted under the covers, shivering still with three blankets weighing down on his weakened body, and unsuccessfully tried to find a comfortable position. He wanted to be able to go outside, even go to school if he had to, but had to submit to the unchanging fact that he was stuck there until the pills his mother shoved down his throat started taking effect.

It was perhaps a couple hours later when he woke up to the sound of rain pitter-pattering on his window, the room far darker now with the sun hiding behind the dark clouds that hung above Derry. He groggily opened and closed his eyes a couple of times, trying to get used to the pain he’d forgotten about in his slumber; the aching of his limbs, the soreness of his throat, the headache starting at the base of his neck and traveling all around his skull, the feeling of something heavy settled on his chest and not letting him breathe. He turned his head slightly to see the glowing numbers of his digital clock, showing him that it was a little past five. 

Richie turned his head upon hearing a knock on his door. “Sweetie?” his mother’s gentle voice came, “Eddie’s here, do you feel like you can talk?”

“Eddie?” he asked groggily, sleep still somewhat clinging to his lashes as he blinked. “I— yeah, sure.”

She nodded and closed the door briefly, her footsteps could be heard for a moment longer before she seemed to disappear off to somewhere. A minute or so later the door opened once again, but this time it was Eddie looking at him hesitantly. Richie gave him a tired smirk, but he reckoned it looked more like a grimace.

“Miss me?” he asked, trying to sound teasing but coming off more exhausted than anything, his voice strained and barely there. Eddie rolled his eyes before taking a reluctant step into the room and closing the door after himself. “Not gonna lie, Eds, didn't think you’d be the one to come see me when I’m sick.”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered as he sat down on the edge of Richie’s bed. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, virgin. You look pretty as always.”

Eddie frowned. “I told you it was a bad idea, but no one fucking listened to me.”

“It’s just a cold, it’ll probably pass in a few days,” Richie replied, shrugging.

“Do you have a fever?” Eddie asked seriously, pretending like he hadn't even heard him. Richie scowled.

“What are you, my mom?” he tried to joke but the look on Eddie’s face didn't change. He sighed. “Had one a couple hours ago, I don't know if I still have it. I just feel tired, honestly.” Eddie was about to say something when Richie beat him to it. “If you’re here to talk about my impending death, I’m good. I’ll only die when I absolutely have to.”

Eddie shut his mouth and glared at his hands on his lap. For a reason Richie couldn't quite decipher, the air seemed a bit more tense than it usually was when the two of them were alone like this. He reckoned it must be because of Eddie’s reluctance to get near him in fear of catching a cold as well. “Your birthday is coming up.”

Richie paused for a moment. “Yeah, I guess it is. The big ol’ one-five.” He tried to get a good look on Eddie’s face but he was ducking his head. “Seriously, man, are you okay? I feel like _ you’re _the one who’s sick.”

Eddie tensed up momentarily. “Yeah, I just—” he reached into his pocket and pulled out his inhaler. He took a big gulp, placed it back into his pocket and scowled. “I know it’s not real,” he said as if he could read Richie’s confusion, “it still helps, I think. I don't know.” He started scratching a patch of skin on his inner forearm. “Anyway, I was just worried since you didn't come today. You don't really miss school, so…”

“You didn't think I actually got hypothermia, did you?” Richie joked, but Eddie’s frown was still in place. “Wait, you’re kidding, right? Oh my God, Eds, did you think I’d _ died?” _he let out a loud laugh, his throat hurt in response. Eddie was still frowning but his eyes were a little wide with embarrassment. 

“Shut the fuck up, Christ,” he muttered. “I didn't think you’d _ died, _I was just wondering if it was bad enough for you to stop being annoying for a day. Clearly I was wrong, since you’re still talking. I’m fucking disappointed, if anything.”

Richie cooed in mock delight. “Eds, if I didn't know you’d punch me for sure I would kiss you right now.”

Eddie scrunched up his nose. He really didn't look fourteen. “I would have punched you even if you weren't sick,” he replied. “Please don't try, though. I don't need another reason for my mom to quarantine me all week.”

Richie’s smile fell. _ “Another?” _ he asked, confused. “Mrs K is trying to quarantine you _ already?” _

“Yeah,” Eddie replied, rolling his eyes as he played with his fingers. “Apparently a lot of people have been getting sick lately, she wants me to stay at home and ‘safe.’” He scowled again. “I spent the entire day with a literal surgical mask, barely got out of wearing rubber gloves, I swear. So fucking humiliating.”

“So, I’m guessing your mom doesn't know you’re here?” Richie asked, and for a reason unknown to him he could feel excitement bubbling in his stomach. Perhaps it was the rush of knowing that they were doing something they weren't supposed to, or rather that Eddie had come to see him despite his mother’s constant nagging.

Eddie scoffed. “Yeah, what else is new? She thinks I’m over at Chris’.”

“Again?” Richie asked, something churning in his gut. “How close are you that she’s completely fine with you going over to his all the time?”

“I don't go over to his all the time,” Eddie said defensively, the corners of his lips pulled down. “I talk to him every now and then but that’s about it. Why are you so against him?”

“I’m not against him,” Richie replied petulantly. “I just don't understand why your mom likes him better than us.”

“Well, you _ did _break my arm last summer.”

“That wasn't us, though!” Richie exclaimed, ignoring the painful protest of his throat. “That was It, not us!”

Eddie scoffed. “You think my mom would believe that a psychotic clown broke my arm and tried to eat me? Even _ you _ didn't believe that shit at first, and you _ saw _the damn thing!”

“Whatever,” Richie said, perfectly aware of how much like a child he must be acting like. He didn't think Eddie particularly cared; he never had cared much about Richie’s petulance. It was rather annoying how mature he seemed at times, despite his small structure and childish mannerisms. “Anyway, you’re here and you’re not even freaked out about my germs? That’s new.”

“I always worry about your germs,” Eddie replied with a grin, making Richie kick him under the blanket. “I mean, it’s… a bit _ weird, _like I know that my mom has been freaking me out over nothing this entire time but it still bothers me that you’re sick. I didn't want to come, at first,” he admitted quietly. Richie, for what it was worth, didn't comment. “Or I wanted to wear my mask and shit, just to make sure. But it’s so dumb, it’s so tiring to worry about that shit all the time.”

“So does that mean I can give you that kiss? I’ll be gentle,” Richie joked, trying to lighten the mood a little. 

“If you literally even come an inch closer I’ll fucking deck you.”

“Don’t swear so much, it doesn't fit your pretty li’l mouth.”

“Fuck off, Tozier,” Eddie said in good nature, and they seemed okay. “Anyway, do you know what you want for your birthday?”

Richie leaned back against his pillow, pursing his lips. “Not really,” he answered. “Well, a guitar would be cool as fuck, but I can't really ask my parents for one.”

“Why not?” Eddie asked, frowning. 

Richie shrugged. “It’s kinda expensive, you know? And my parents are cool and all, but my dad isn't really the type to allow shit like that.”

Eddie simply hummed.

—

“G-glad to h-h-have you b-back,” Bill said upon spotting him along with Eddie, a genuine smile adorning his lips. Richie didn't know what had been wrong with them in the past, but they seemed okay now. 

“A simple cold isn't enough to kill me,” Richie just replied with a grin.

Bill nodded, but there was a hesitation in his movements. “L-listen, I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Richie said despite not knowing what Bill was about to say. It didn't really seem to matter in the end; whether he was about to apologize for offering to dive off the cliff again or about something else didn't seem as important as it had a couple weeks prior. Bill smiled and nodded again, but this time he seemed far more relieved than before.

—

“Where the fuck are you virgins taking me?” Richie complained as Eddie and Stanley pushed him forward, his eyes were bound with a random bandana Stanley had pulled out of his pocket. “It’s cold as fuck, why couldn't we just do this somewhere else? Somewhere with _ heating, _ perhaps? Like a _ house?” _

“Can I hit him _once?” _Eddie huffed. 

“Not today, sorry, Eddie,” Stanley replied, but it sounded like he was smiling. “It’s his birthday, we have to deal with his shit for a single day. You can beat him up tomorrow.”

Richie placed a hand on his chest like a scandalised old lady, his mouth gaping. “You’re being extremely rude to me on my _ birthday. _Do you know how many bad boy points that gets you? At least three. Get ready for some spanking.”

“You’re the only one who’s going to get spanked if you don't shut up, Rich,” Stanley replied as he shoved him a little harder. Perhaps Richie could have tried to push his luck a little further, but he didn't exactly want to test Stanley’s patience despite his promise not to hurt him on that particular day.

He could feel and hear the dry leaves crunching beneath his feet and the air seemed just a tad bit fresher than before, so Richie wondered if they were deep in the woods. “Are we in the woods?” he questioned, wanting to fix his glasses but being unable to do so with the bandana around his eyes and Eddie’s hand holding onto his arm tightly. “Are you taking me into the woods to kill me? On my _ birthday?” _

“Say birthday one more time, and we just might,” Eddie replied, and Richie was quiet after that.

“Well, we’re here,” Stanley said after a while, his tone full of glee, and finally untied the bandana around Richie’s eyes, who frowned upon spotting the entrance to the clubhouse. 

“I thought the surprise would be an actual surprise,” he said, deadpan, as his friends started shoving him towards the entrance and down the ladder. “I’m really going to be killed, aren't I? You’re definitely—”

“Happy Birthday!” Richie turned around to see Ben, Mike and Bill grinning at him with a questionable looking cake — covered in gummy worms and chocolate frosting and haphazardly placed candles — and promptly burst into laughter.

“That looks fucking _ awful!” _he wheezed in delight.

Eddie shoved him on the shoulder, but it wasn't particularly harsh. “If you don't want it, we can eat the whole thing.”

That was when Richie snatched the cake out of Bill’s hands and held it close to himself. “It’s _ my _birthday, asshole. You can wait until you’re twelve to eat your own cake.” The fondness tinting his tone was somewhat unfamiliar and rather uncomfortable to hear, but he decided to ignore and hope the others hadn't caught it.

Eddie was mortified upon realising that they didn't have any plates or utensils in the clubhouse, shaking his head in fear with his hands stretched out to protect himself as Richie grabbed a handful of the awfully decorated cake and shoved it into his face. Eddie was probably the only one who didn't find it amusing.

Ben pulled out multiple bags of chips out of his backpack, Bill followed along with two bottles of soda that were as big as Richie’s torso, and finally Mike brought out a whole projector and a VCR player out of nowhere and made sure the room was dark before putting a tape into the player — he mentioned that it was a surprise when Richie asked what they were watching — and took a seat next to his friends who had already started stuffing their faces with snacks, including Eddie who was still grumbling under his breath with remnants of chocolate frosting on his cheeks.

The movie turned out to be a rather old — and arguably hilarious — horror movie from the 60s; black-and-white and with a cast consisting of multiple blonde women and trench coat wearing detectives. It was rather funny, really, that they would be watching a horror movie after going through a literal death trap just a month or two prior. 

After the movie was over and the snacks left in mere crumbs — Stanley complained about attracting bugs, Mike had to remind him that they were literally underground and if there were any bugs willing to get them, they had all the chance in the world — Bill perked up with a grin. “H-hey Richie,” he said nudging him with his knee, “d-d-did y-you want anything f-for your b-birthday?”

“Hm?” Richie looked up from the empty bottle of soda he was holding up to his eye. “I’d like a dozen strippers.”

Stanley rolled his eyes and shoved him by the shoulder, but his grin was suspicious. He had never quite learned how to keep his emotions back. “For real, dumbass.”

“I’d like to fuck Eddie’s mom, is that possible?”

“Forget about it, Billy, he doesn't deserve a present,” Eddie said exasperatedly. 

Richie’s brows shot up to his hairline at that. “Fuck, did you losers actually get me something?”

“More like Eddie got you something,” Ben said, a little shy. “He came up with the idea and everything—” a swift elbow to the stomach promptly shut him up, pushing him to a fit of coughs.

“I did no such thing!” Eddie protested, and if the clubhouse had been less dimly lit than it was, Richie could have been sure that he was blushing. “W-why the _ fuck _would I do that?”

“He paid the most for it,” Mike chimed in, grinning at a speechless Eddie. Richie first looked at him, then at his friend who was looking desperately for words. He pressed a hand against his chest in mock-gratefulness.

“If I didn't know better, I’d think you liked me,” he said with an exaggeratedly teary voice.

Eddie gaped at him for a moment before frowning and crossing his arms. “Fucking burn it, Billy, I don't want this dipshit to enjoy _ anything.” _

“W-we paid for i-it t-too, though,” Bill said as he disappeared into the darkness, followed by a groan from Eddie. “It-it would be a-a sh-shame if we bu-burn-burnt it.” There was a rustling sound for a moment. “G-got it, c-cover his e-eye-eyes.”

“I’m not gonna close my fucking ey—” Richie’s sentence was cut off by three pairs of hands flying in order to practically pin him to the ground in an effort cover his eyes, he let out a shriek of surprise that was answered to with giggles in different voices. “Fucking _ let go, _I swear to—”

“O-okay, o-op-open them.”

“What’s so important that I had to—” this time Richie cut himself off upon spotting something familiar in Bill’s hands — a classic guitar, worn out and obviously second-hand, but looking perfectly capable either way. He frowned, his gaze jumping from one of his friends to the other as they grinned almost maniacally. Eddie was still frowning a little farther from him, but something was tugging at the corners of his mouth. When he managed to regain his breath, the first thing Richie managed to say was, “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s a guitar!” Ben replied excitedly. “Eddie mentioned that you wanted one, and—”

“You _ told _them?” Richie asked, to which Eddie shrugged.

“They were bound to learn someday. Besides, I thought owning a guitar would be better than hiding the fact that you can _ play.” _

Richie pressed his lips together and turned back to the guitar, eyes wandering over the smooth surface as his fingers twitched. “This… This isn't a fucking joke, right?” he asked, somewhat doubtful. He could never be too careful with his friends involved. “If it’s… I don't fucking know, _ cardboard _or some shit I will end all of you. You’ll wish Pennywise had done it first.”

“B-beep, beep, Ri-Richie,” Bill sighed. “J-just take th-the fucking gu-guitar, w-wi-will you?”

Richie hesitantly reached for the instrument, the surface was as smooth as it had seemed and it was cool to the touch. He gripped the neck and looked at the strings running over it, caressing the obviously old steel and feeling the roughness against his fingertips. “I…” he trailed off, for once not able to think of what to say. “There’s no fucking way I’m getting any of you pieces of shit something like this, you know that, right?”

Stanley rolled his eyes. “Just say thanks, asshole.”

Richie grinned to the instrument in his hands. “Thanks,” he muttered, before pausing to look at Eddie once again. “I feel like a maiden being courted by a very tiny knight.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie replied with a huff.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might be triggering for some people, proceed with caution!

“That was awful!” Stanley shuddered as they walked out of the theatre. “Why would _ anyone _want to see people’s faces getting bitten off? What kind of logic is that?”

“I don't know what you’re talking about,” Richie said, jogging slightly so that he was at the front of the group and then beginning to walk backwards, facing his friends. “Watching people’s faces get bitten off is like, the best part of a zombie movie!” He raised his arms and rolled his eyes back. “Watch out, Mr Jew, I’m about to bite off your dick!”

“Honestly, Rich, you—”

“What’s wrong, señor? Worried your dick is gonna get even shorter?”

Richie’s attention was then drawn by a couple of girls standing outside of the theatre; wearing high ponytails with colourful scrunchies and tight white tank tops with different coloured bomber jackets, eyelids painted in blues, purples and pinks. They were whispering amongst themselves and throwing glances at them, then giggling. Richie felt a weird sense of dread in his stomach, like he knew exactly how this would play out and yet would be far too proud to back out.

Feeling brave, he looked back at them and grinned. “What’s the matter ladies? See something you like?”

One of them — a girl with big hooped earrings and a neon pink skirt — scoffed and crossed her arms. “As _ if,” _ she said in a shrill voice, the valley girl speech heavy in her words. “Like, barf me out! You’re, like, totally obnoxious as hell.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie shot back. “Some say it’s part of my charm.”

“W-what are y-you d-d-doing?” Bill asked, frowning at him. Richie simply shrugged with a lopsided grin.

“You’re so lame,” one of the others said, squinting her eyes. 

“Yeah, just bag your face and leave,” said another.

Richie shrugged again, the words had somewhat ceased to have an effect after the summer. He didn't feel particularly offended by them, but it was rather entertaining. He was about to open his mouth and say something else when Eddie grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him away from the girls, scowling. Richie tried to object but didn't pull his arm out of his grip. “What the hell, Eds?”

“You’re being stupid,” Eddie simply said and continued dragging him by the arm, even when they were definitely far enough from the girls. “Why would you pick a fight with them for no reason?”

“They were being dicks!” Richie defended, voice raising petulantly. Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, well, you _ were _being obnoxious.”

“No I wasn't!” Richie exclaimed. “I was being _ funny, _do you know what that means, cumwad?”

Eddie didn't respond and simply continued walking ahead of him. It was slightly odd; Richie wasn't used to their bickering being one sided, he often relied on Eddie to keep the arguing going, but now he was quiet. Was he genuinely upset? Had Richie managed to actually anger him? The thought irritated him, he didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet as well. A few moments later the rest of their friends reached them as well, slightly jogging to catch up. 

“Those girls were mean,” Ben said, scrunching up his nose. 

“Y-yeah,” Bill agreed, “d-don’t th-think about it t-too much, R-Rich.”

“I’m not thinking about it at all,” Richie replied defensively. Why was Eddie still holding onto his arm? “It was fun to annoy them.”

“Your definition of fun never ceases to surprise me,” Stanley said.

—

“Y-you c-coming, Richie?” Bill asked, grabbing his change of clothes from his locker and turning towards the gym. Richie scrunched up his nose in distaste.

“And be surrounded by a bunch of sweaty kids? No thanks,” he replied, closing his own locker and swinging his backpack over his shoulder. He grinned at his friends mischievously. “I’m feeling a little naughty today.”

“Are you skipping?” Ben asked, surprised. “You never do that.”

Richie shrugged, holding onto the strap of his bag to keep it from slipping off his shoulder, and started walking backwards away from his friends. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s that good ol’ puberty kicking in. I can feel the hormones already.” He waved at his friends and turned around. “See you later, losers.”

Walking to the music class when no one else was there had become something akin to second nature. Mrs Andrews hadn't showed up on that particular day, and Richie was rather upset by that fact, but it meant that the room would be left to him without anyone else to interfere on his playing. He had been practising more often than not with the second hand guitar his friends had gotten him for his birthday, and although he still hadn't brought it home it meant that he could play for as long as he liked in the clubhouse. His friends didn't like the place as much as they used to after all, there was usually no one but him and his guitar. 

He pushed the door open to the music room, finding it delightfully and predictably empty, and closed it behind him, shutting out the noise of the corridor full of students. He set his backpack down on the floor and grabbed one of the lonely guitars propped up against the wall. It was the one he had been using in the music room since Mrs Andrews had started teaching him; smooth and far newer than his own, the tuning just a little easier. 

He pulled out one of the chairs and placed the guitar on his knee, playing with the chords until the noise sounded about right. By then he’d gotten used to tuning it by ear, it was one of the first things his teacher had taught him how to do. Even he had to admit to himself that he had gotten the hang of it rather quickly. Mrs Andrews had been so excited when he had done it for the first time without her assistance, the thought made him smile just a little. 

He knew what song he wanted to play, it had been stuck in his head since he had woken up bleary eyed and foggy minded; _ Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door _by Bob Dylan, which had inserted itself into his brain sometime while he was asleep. He already knew the chords, had been practising them for a while when he couldn't sleep and his head was filled with music. He knew that the sound of his guitar wasn't quite the same as the original, he had listened to it enough to be able to tell the difference, but it didn't really seem to matter then. He was content with strumming the strings like he had done many times before, the sound not quite right but not quite wrong either. He hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath, and very quietly started singing.

He knew that Eddie had been exaggerating when he had complimented his singing — or rather mentioned that it wasn't _ awful _with a roll of his eyes and a frustrated blush on his cheeks. Eddie seemed to always be blushing; when he was sad and quiet, when he was so happy that his grin became impossibly large, when he was so frustrated or angry that tears reached his eyes and clung to his lashes… Richie made a mistake while playing, stopped, frowned, re-oriented himself and started playing from the top once again.

It wasn't necessarily the hardest song on the planet, but it was still somewhat challenging. It was enjoyable — still rather slow for his personal taste but he could appreciate the emotion behind it; which was something he had learned to do when Mrs Andrews had introduced him to different types of music, which even included classical, and had told him to take a listen to see if he could look at the songs in a non-superficial way. Richie had scoffed at it at first, he had found it silly to listen to songs which he’d thought were made for ‘lame lovers’ who didn't have anything better to do than write sappy love stories, but perhaps his perspective had shifted just a tad. He still didn't think he would ever choose Bach over Queen, but it was slightly easier to understand.

Wrong chord. He huffed in annoyance and started from the top once again, frowning as he concentrated on the sound and the movements of his hands. He opened his mouth and started singing once again, more confident but just as quiet. He didn't want anyone to hear him, he didn't want people to know the music room was one of the only places he felt comfortable enough to drop the walls around him and simply play. It had been hard enough to tell Eddie and the rest of his friends about it. 

When he finally managed to play the song in its entirety without messing up he grinned to himself with triumph, raising his head. His eyes found the clock on the wall and for a moment he was taken aback by how fast time had gone by, and he could faintly hear the sounds of students leaving their classrooms when his mind wasn't huddled with music. He placed the guitar back to its place and slung his backpack over his shoulder, there was a spring to his steps from the glee he was keeping barely contained as he walked out of the empty classroom, his feet already taking him through the corridors and towards the chemistry room. He wanted to share the fact that he had succeeded in playing the song with Eddie, even though he knew that there would be light teasing and half-hearted insults following it. He kept his head down as if it was muscle memory to not make eye contact with anyone in the halls, but he couldn't stop his hand from patting against his thigh in the beat of the song, the chords still running through his mind and making him feel a little silly.

He rounded the corner and like he had been expecting, Eddie was standing in front of the classroom. What he hadn't been expecting, though, was Eddie laughing at something. Or that he would be talking to someone; a lanky boy with glasses and strawberry blonde hair. Richie frowned for a moment, trying to figure out why he wasn't simply intruding on the conversation like he normally would have done, when it dawned on him that he knew the boy Eddie was talking to. Not only did he know him, he shared a math class with him. Him and Eddie, to be precise.

Chris Zimmerman said something else, drowned out to Richie by the deafening sounds of the people walking through the hall, but it was apparently funny enough to make Eddie double in laughter. Chris was grinning too, like he had said something that was groundbreakingly hilarious. Richie’s frown deepened as he felt an odd sense of betrayal course through his veins, freaking him out in the process. He backed away slightly so that he would be hidden away behind the wall. Eddie said something, Chris smiled and shrugged.

Richie couldn't remember a time he felt weird or uncomfortable for intruding on something; he had always classified himself — and been classified by others — as rather shameless, he’d never really had a problem inviting himself into his friends’ conversations, but this moment in particular came to him as rather odd. He felt upset, like an outsider, like he didn't really know Eddie, like they hadn't been friends since they were children. It was stupid, he _ knew _ it was stupid. Eddie wasn't his girlfriend — his mind replaced the word for another without his consent, he tried to shove it deep down — and he wasn't reserved to Richie, what was even stranger was the fact that Richie had _ known _about Eddie’s friendship with Chris, but that didn't change how uncomfortable he was feeling. His hand had stopped drumming the beat against his thigh. 

He backed away and walked out of the hall into the next one, suddenly feeling bothered and fidgety and like he didn't belong in his own skin; like he didn't belong anywhere. It was so _ stupid, _so utterly stupid, and yet he still walked away with something churning in his stomach.

It was easy to avoid Eddie for the rest of the day; they didn't have any classes together and couldn't really see each other until the end of the day when their friend group would get on their bikes and ride home among their usual bickering and joking around. But when the last bell rang and they were free to leave, Richie found himself gripping onto the strap of his backpack with more force than necessary and leaving the building before any of his friends would get the chance to spot him. He unlocked the chain on his bike and got on it, already feeling jittery and wanting to leave as soon as possible. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, which was rather odd considering how chattery he got at the end of the day on most days. He didn't feel like riding his bike either, so he grabbed ahold of the handlebars and started walking away from the school with the noises of students and cars and busses a faint hum in his ears. It was probably a little rude to leave without his friends knowing, but he didn't think anyone would particularly care. 

Richie avoided the main road to his house and instead went through the park. He pulled his walkman out at one point during his walk; it was boring and slightly lonely and he thought music could help him. He deliberately skipped _ Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door _and settled for some classic Guns N’ Roses to take his mind off of whatever it was busy thinking about. He had given up trying to play catch-up with his own brain a long time ago, he let it wander like a dog in the backyard; free enough for him to be at peace but close enough to pull back if it got too dangerous. 

From the deafeningly high volume of his walkman he didn't hear someone — or rather a group of people — approach him from behind. 

His headphones were yanked off his head and the music was cut off instantly. He couldn't even let out a shriek; his breath had gotten stuck in his throat, before he was slammed against the barrier of the Kissing Bridge with so much force that it felt like a nail had cut into his skin. Someone was holding him by the collar of his shirt — Belch? 

“Get the fuck off of me!” Richie yelled, trying to struggle out of Belch’s grasp, but it was a fruitless effort. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

“He’s gotten brave,” Belch laughed, throwing a glance at the other two kids standing beside him with matching grins. Richie felt sick. “Did you really think that you were safe just because Bowers went to jail? I haven't forgotten that fucking bitch of yours.”

“Who?” Richie said, frowning. Belch pressed him harder against the hard wood of the bridge, hoisting him up slightly so that he could barely stand on his tiptoes, dangerously hanging off.

“That _ whore,” _Belch said, his voice low. It was almost funny, how intimidating he tried to be without the actually insane glint in Henry’s eyes. It wasn't the same, and despite being barely able to breathe, Richie didn't feel the sheer terror Henry used to induce. “The slut with red hair. Where the fuck is she? I’m going to smash her head in with a rock.”

Richie frowned for a moment before letting out an incredulous laugh. “Bev _ moved!” _he spat. “I haven't heard from her since summer, I have no fucking clue where she is!”

“He’s lying,” one of the others said, and he must have been a new recruit because Richie was sure he didn't know him. It was pathetic, how this kid tried to fit in with Belch and his sorry excuse for a gang just so he wouldn't be the one pressed against the barriers with Belch’s rotten breath fanning in his face. Richie wanted to laugh again, humourless and very pitying, but he kept it to himself. His heart was hammering in his chest with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“I’m not!” he yelled, trying to grab ahold of Belch’s hands to tear them off but he was still too small to do anything, too weak. He wanted to scream again, kick until he couldn't possibly move anymore, break something. “Let me _ go!” _

Belch paused for a moment, then moved his face to take a closer look at Richie’s face. “Wait, you’re the faggot that was hitting on Henry’s cousin, aren't you?” Richie could feel the blood being drawn from his face, his knees were shaking with the effort it took to keep himself up. Belch laughed and moved closer, which could have been considered rather ironic given what he had said just a moment ago. “Fuck, you _ are!” _he said with villainous glee mixed with disgust. “You should have died with the rest of your kind.”

Richie felt something grow and morph in his stomach, something almost primal; angry and raw and like a need to scream. He struggled against their clutches once more, but it was a fruitless effort. He let out a scream, cried for help as they dragged him deeper into the woods, but no one came. He bit the hand of one of the bullies when they tried to cover his mouth, and received a punch in return, sending a wave of pain throughout his skull. He didn't know where they were dragging him, the woods were deep and unforgiving in their isolation and utterly confusing; the trees a maze of brown and green and grey. The air left his lungs as they threw him on the ground and his back met a sharp rock, his mouth hanging open in a silent cry of pain. Before he could even sit upright there was the weight of another, larger in comparison, body on top of his legs, hands on his wrists to hold him down as their cruel laughter rang in his ears. He had been beaten before, kicked until the bruises that bloomed on his skin didn't leave for weeks, choked by large hands, but at that moment where he was by himself without anyone to hear his voice, he wondered if he would die. 

Someone stomped on his stomach and the pain combined with lack of oxygen in his lungs was enough for almost make him shrink into himself and sick out whatever he had eaten that day, but a hand yanked him by the collar of his shirt before he could even react, and landed another punch directly on his nose. Richie felt blood gush out of his nostrils onto his top lip. He could smell metal. He had felt pain before, but he didn't quite remember it being so intense. There were fingers grabbing his hair, another fist colliding with his bottom lip and cutting it open. Richie thought, with his mind hazy from the pain and quite possibly disassociating just to keep him sane, that his face was most likely covered in quickly drying crimson. He could barely open his eyes anymore, his limbs felt heavy and as if they didn't belong to him, the rage and fear fueled adrenaline now no longer possessing his body. 

Punch after punch, kick after kick, his hair being tugged at, his head and back hitting the rocks and the earth hardened with cold beneath him… There were words being shouted at him, cruel laughter. 

He could hear Belch say something, but the ringing in his ears kept him from processing what was being exchanged between the gang. His head was pounding starting from his temples and wrapping around his entire skull like a snake trying to crush it by squeezing tightly enough, but he tried to focus on their words, even for a moment. Belch was saying something about “serves him right” and “it’s what his kind deserves” and “he would like it, the faggot.” When Richie figured out what was about to take place, the gang was already approaching him with their disgusting hands, and he couldn't even scream. 

A sound sliced through the air like a blade being thrown, loud and disorienting and worryingly nearby. Another sound, the exact same as the first but even closer this time. Richie realised that it was a gunshot.

Belch cursed under his breath and shoved Richie on the ground before jumping off him and breaking into a sprint, followed by the other two like dogs with their tails stuck between their legs. Richie wanted to laugh but every movement hurt, the act of breathing seemed like it was a dagger being pushed deeper and deeper into his chest every time he dared to fill it with air. His body was aching and tired, he wondered if he had a concussion from hitting his head so many times. _ Do people with a concussion even wonder if they have a concussion? Are they alive enough to do that? _Richie certainly felt dead enough.

He heard leaves crunching and rustling as someone approached him quickly, like in a hurry to get to him. _ “Fuck,” _they said, and it was an awfully familiar voice, even through the fog in his head and ringing in his ears. “Shit, Richie, what did they do to you?” Richie tried to look up at the person hanging above him, but his sight was blurry. He realised that it was caused by the tears pooling in his eyes and gently sliding down the edges of his face, mixing with his own blood. 

He blinked them away until he could clearly see the dark skin and panicked but familiar eyes. “Mike?” he tried to ask, but the movements of his cut lip made him scrunch up his face in pain, resulting in even more of it. Mike was on his knees next to him in a second, his hands hanging in the air like he wanted to help him but also feared hurting him if he as much as laid a finger on his skin.

“Don't talk, Rich,” he muttered as he finally cradled his face gently to take a closer look at his face. _ “Fuck. _ Shit, shit, _ shit.” _

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Richie asked weakly, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. As long as he could still joke, everything would be fine. That’s what he had been telling himself all along. 

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” Mike said with a frown, but his tone was soft. “Stay here, I’ll get help.” He was about to draw his hand back when Richie grabbed him by the wrist. He glanced down at his bruised hand covered in blood, and frowned. 

“Don't,” Richie mumbled. He swallowed what he thought was a large gulp of his blood mixed with saliva.

Mike gave him an incredulous look. “Richie, we need to get you to a _ hospital,” _he said, ever the voice of reason, but Richie was far too delirious to be reasonable. He shook his head.

_ “No,” _he said, his voice clearer and stronger than ever since Mike had arrived, and he could see his friend’s resolve crumble. “No one can know, no one can—” he cut himself off with a fit of coughs, his chest ached and his lungs burned. “People will ask questions, Mikey. You… you know how Eddie gets when he’s worried.” He tried to smile but he could feel his mouth tremble, his muscles struggling to perform even the smallest of actions.

Mike looked conflicted and just a little aggravated by Richie’s idiotic stubornness. “No,_ what? _ You’re bleeding like _ hell, _Richie, and I don't have anything! Wh… what am I supposed to do? I…” he trailed off, looking like a lost puppy as he desperately searched for a solution. 

“The clubhouse,” Richie managed out. “Eds has a first-aid kit there. It’s… it’s not _ that _far.”

“It _ is _far!” Mike said. He looked around frantically. “It’s— uhm, we’re near the baseball field, I think. Just a little bit of a walk and we should be able to find someone, yeah? Then we can get you some actual treatment, patch you up. You can report this—”

“Have you ever reported anything they did to you?” Richie asked, frowning. When Mike didn't respond, he nodded. “Thought so. We can't let people see me like this, Mike. I would rather _ die.” _

Mike was quiet for a moment, watching Richie with an unconvinced but exasperated expression. “What are you hiding, Richie?” he asked quietly, and Richie felt his muscles tense up, the blood gushing out faster and soaking his skin and clothes. “Why wouldn't you want anyone to ask questions? What _ happened?” _

Richie kept quiet, his mind buzzing with words he didn't dare utter. He couldn't let him know, he couldn't tell him when he couldn't accept it himself. “Nothing,” he insisted, the lie heavy on his tongue. “Please, Mike, just take me to the clubhouse.”

Mike seemed to consider it for another moment before letting out a final sigh. He nodded and helped Richie up to his feet, carrying most of his weight. It was excruciating to stand upright, let alone take a step, but Richie clenched his teeth and held back his moans and groans of pain. It was a slow process, and in hindsight it would have been far easier to walk out of the woods and find someone to help him, but he simply couldn't allow that to happen. If he was to be taken to a hospital, his family and his friends would know about how he had almost gotten beaten to death, they would ask questions about what had happened, they would interrogate him and doubt his lies. They would figure it out, somehow. They would _ know. _

Around half an hour later they were sitting in the rotten wooden floors of the clubhouse, Richie barely standing upright with his back to a wall and Mike quietly dabbing at the cuts on his body. They had stripped him off his windbreaker and blood and sweat soaked shirt, so Richie was trembling with the moldy October air in the room. As soon as mike was done with icing and treating the bruises on his abdomen he wrapped a blanket around his shivering body.

“W-what were you doing in the woods? With a _ gun?” _Richie asked when his mind was coherent enough to piece the events together and think of them as something other than a fever dream.

Mike shrugged as he carefully slapped a band-aid over a cut on Richie’s cheekbone. “I was cleaning my granddad’s gun and hear a couple weird sounds, so I came to investigate. I thought Belch and his gang were just beating up a kid, and,” he let his arm drop to the side as he stared at his lap in shame, “for a moment I was just planning on leaving it. It was none of my business, I didn't want to get involved and get a good smack from my granddad, but then I thought about what you guys did for me.” He shrugged and went back to cleaning the cut on Richie’s lip. “I remembered how Bev had thrown that stone to protect me, how you guys just stood up to Bowers for my sake, and I felt ashamed for turning my back on another kid. I’m glad I didn't.”

“So you didn't know it was me?”

Mike shook his head. “Not until I got closer, no,” he replied. “I just thought it was some random, innocent kid they had caught after school. I obviously panicked when I could see you lying there, though, looking as grey as the sheep my granddad killed this morning.”

Richie rested his head against the rough wood, an uncomfortable feeling churned in his stomach as he was reminded of being pressed against the barrier of the bridge. He licked his dry lips, tasting the antibacterial ointment instead of blood. “I’m glad you were there,” he muttered quietly. Mike probably thought it was so that he wouldn't get even more roughed up than he already was, but Richie didn't tell him the truth. He didn't want to think about what Blech and his disgusting sidekicks would have done if Mike hadn't miraculously appeared, he didn't mention the feeling of disgust directed at himself at the thought of their hands. He hung onto the blanket tighter as if it would conceal him from the eyes of the universe.

“What are you planning on telling your family?” Mike asked finally, as if he had been waiting to ask that since Richie had refused finding help. “Those bruises and cuts aren't going to heal as soon as you step out of the clubhouse, you know.”

Richie let out a sigh and closed his eyes. “I don't know,” he admitted. “My dad is going to be so disappointed.” He reopened them to look at Mike. “Not because I got into a fight, but because I lost it.”

“You didn't even _ get into _a fight, they just attacked you,” Mike said with a frown. 

“Yeah, as if that’s going to change anything,” Richie laughed bitterly. “My dad’s definition of a man is very strict, and I don't really fit into it. You could say he’s ashamed of me.”

Mike’s frown deepened as he glared at his lap again. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied. “My granddad’s the same, so I get it. He used to call me a poof for not wanting to kill the sheep.”

Richie clenched his teeth, seething with anger and discomfort. It was so _ wrong, _ so _ unfair _that he had to feel this strange, uncomfortable sense of helplessness and disgust towards himself every single time someone said a word like that.

_ Gross, _ he reminded himself, _ disgusting. Unnatural. Freak. _

“Eddie’s going to freak out when he sees me like this,” he tried to joke, and when Mike smiled he had faith that he didn't sound any different whatsoever.

  



	4. Chapter 4

Eddie _ did _freak out when he saw the somewhat healed cuts and bruises on Richie’s face, who was just relieved that he couldn't see the rest under his layers of clothing. They were standing in the middle of the Tozier’s living room, Eddie had demanded to know what was up with him when Richie had insisted on not being able to hang out with them. He had invited himself in about ten minutes ago, and had been frowning and yelling since he had first spotted Richie. 

“What the hell _ happened?” _ Eddie said, a deep frown on his face, and Richie realised that he didn't have to look down as much as before to meet his eyes. Had Eddie grown? _ Weird, _he thought. It had never occurred to him that Eddie would grow taller as well, it had seemed like he would forever stay as his pocket sized, cute Eddie. It took a moment for him to realise that he was being held by the shoulders and shaken slightly by a very distressed looking Eddie. Even if he was taller, his frown of concern never seemed to change. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”

Richie placed a hand over Eddie’s, and it felt strangely reassuring even to him. Did they used to do this before? He couldn't quite remember. “I’m _fine,”_ he said, pressing on the word. “I just got jumped by Belch and his gang.”

Eddie didn't step back. _ Why is he still so close? _“Belch?” he asked, surprise mixed with disgust pouring out of his mouth. “What the hell did that shithead do?”

Richie shrugged. “I guess he thinks that now that Bowers is gone, he can be something other than a pet. It was kind of pathetic, really.”

Eddie was quiet for a moment, inspecting the injuries, before he carefully placed a hand on Richie’s cheek. Richie tensed up. No matter how many years they had spent together as best friends, this was far too intimate, too close, too vulnerable. But he didn't move from under Eddie’s hand, he didn't push him away, he simply pressed his lips together and tried to stay grounded to reality through the pain in his swollen bottom lip. 

“They did_ this _ to you?” Eddie then asked, quiet as if he was afraid of disturbing anyone in the empty house. “Motherfuckers.”

When the odd position they were in really sunk in, Richie pulled Eddie’s hand away from his face carefully, taking a small step backwards to put some space between the two of them. He shrugged. “It could have been much worse,” he replied, although he didn't know if that was supposed to be reassuring. He didn't know when reassuring Eddie had become a common recurrence in their friendship. “Really, I could have lost an arm or something. That would be cool though, right? If I looked like a pirate?”

Eddie seemed at a loss for words before he let out a chuckle that somehow sounded wet. “Literally only _ you _ would think of something like _ that,” _he said. “When did this even happen?”

Richie looked away in embarrassment, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants uncomfortably. “Two days ago,” he admitted, “while I was walking home. I had my headphones on so I didn't hear them coming.”

Eddie paused for a moment as he put the pieces together. When his brows furrowed and his eyes enlarged with realisation, Richie already knew what he was about to say. “You mean when you left without even telling us? _ Fuck, _Rich, how stupid can you be?” He looked as frustrated as Richie felt, but it was probably due to wildly different reasons. Richie just felt bothered by their remaining closeness, the sense of worry and anger in Eddie’s eyes, how he kept asking questions he didn't particularly want to answer. 

“Wow, victim blaming,” he tried to joke, but it sounded strained. He knew that Eddie wasn't aware of what could have happened, had Mike not come to his rescue, but it was still enough to send a shiver down his spine. “Real fucked up, don't you think, Kaspbrak?” 

Eddie flushed and even with the dim lighting of the living room, it was vibrant as ever. It was a wonder how Richie had gotten so used to seeing colour bloom under Eddie’s skin so quick. “I’m not—” he sputtered, flustered. It was cute. Richie clenched his fists until his fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm deep enough to hurt. “I don't— I just don't understand _ why,” _ he said finally. “Why did you leave without us, Rich? You’ve never done that before, not unless you were mad at us. Did we do something wrong? Did _ I _do something wrong?”

Objectively Richie knew that no, Eddie hadn't done something wrong, but he was selfish and jealous and pathetic and he hated seeing someone who he considered his best friend seemingly have such a good time with someone else. He knew that he needed to reassure Eddie, once more, and tell him a lie. “Yeah, well, you looked _ busy,” _he said instead, crossing his arms over his chest and metaphorically placing a barrier between the two of them so he wouldn't be affected by the hurt and confused expression on Eddie’s face. It didn't quite work, so he looked away instead.

“What the hell is _ that _ supposed to mean?” Eddie asked then, frowning. “I wasn't busy doing _ anything, _I was waiting for you by the gates.”

“No, before that,” Richie said pointedly. When Eddie still looked lost, he huffed and rolled his eyes. “You know, if you _ really _wanted to go home with someone you could have just gone with Zimmerman.”

Eddie looked confused for a second, before bitter realisation took over his face. It was odd; seeing the emotions change and shift in his eyes, it was mesmerising. Richie felt like throwing up, like he was on the ground under the disgusting hands of Belch again. “So _ that’s _what this is about?” Eddie asked, incredulous. “What, am I not allowed to talk to other people now? Am I supposed to be glued to you all the time even if you’re not with me? What the fuck do you want from me, Rich?”

Richie immediately tensed up like a threatened cat. He used the couple inches of height he had over Eddie and squared his shoulders. He knew he didn't look intimidating, he didn't look masculine, he didn't appear like a real man. Now Eddie was judging him for that, he knew it. Of course he was, everybody else was. “I don't want anything from you,” he said defensively.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie laughed. “What the hell is your problem then, huh? I’m not your fucking boyfriend, you know.”

“Shut up,” Richie said, the blood in his veins had frozen. “Shut the fuck up, Eddie, you have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.” He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he could rip it open and crawl away from the emotions burning hot in his chest. He hated the feeling of feeling so pathetic, so unlike what he was supposed to be, what his father and everyone else expected him to be. He felt gross, like he was covered in muck from head to toe, like no matter how much he scrubbed his skin until it was red and bleeding he couldn't get rid of the feeling of filth covering it. Was this what Eddie felt like whenever they went anywhere that was remotely unsanitary? He felt like puking once again, his stomach upset and his brain on overdrive. The word _ boyfriend _was echoing in his head unbeknownst to his friend, making him feel chained to the ground. 

“I think I do, though,” Eddie said and took a step closer to him. Panic coursed through Richie’s veins, thoughts of what would happen next flashed in front of his eyes. Eddie would call him disgusting, he would shove him away or beat him up or look at him with the same disgust he had seen in Belch’s eyes. Then _ why _was he standing so close to him? “You’re just jealous, aren't you? That I have a friend other than you? Well, maybe I just don't want to put my life in danger every time I hang out with a friend. Maybe I’m sick of crawling around disgusting, germ covered places all the time.”

Richie swallowed but the big ball of helplessness clogging his throat didn't go away. “Then just go!” he yelled finally, and Eddie flinched. “If you hate hanging out with us so much, why are you here, Eds? If you hate _ me _so much you can run off to your boyfriend’s house and reorganize his books about stamps! You’d find that more fun than hanging out with us, right?”

Eddie pressed his lips together to keep himself from yelling any further, and even then he looked adorable. With his cheeks flushed and his dark eyes glimmering with anger and hurt, he was still pretty. Richie wished Belch had punched him harder, he wished he had been knocked out cold to never wake up ever again. “Screw you, Richie,” he said before turning around and exiting the house, slamming the door after himself. 

When the echo was gone Richie fell limp onto the couch, his limbs heavy and his eyes stinging and his throat hurting. The pain of his injuries seemed to be amplified, where Eddie had touched him on his cheek burned like his fingertips had embedded embers into his skin. But he wouldn't cry, he couldn't allow himself to be weaker than he was, less of a man than he was supposed to be. He closed his eyes and kept the tears hidden behind his eyelids, frowned, and let out a deep breath. They had fought before, of course they had fought, they were far too different and similar at the same time, but he couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless after one of their fights. It was because he was weak and selfish, because he couldn't let Eddie think of him as something disgusting. He hadn't wanted to yell at him, he hadn't wanted to see his own hurt reflected to himself through Eddie’s eyes, but he was weak and defective and pathetic. He missed the way the thoughts had disappeared when Belch had beaten him to a pulp, when the pain was great enough to take them away momentarily.

—

Mrs Andrews, being the angelic person she was, fussed over him when he entered the music room a couple days later. The look of concern on her face reminded him of Eddie, and he felt sick again. “Are you okay?” she asked, worried. “We don't have to practise today if you don't feel well, _ dear.” _She had started calling him that not long ago, and it was strangely comforting. She sounded like his mother, only more caring.

He dropped his bag on the floor and picked up the guitar he always used. “It’s alright,” he said quietly as he started tuning it by ear. “It doesn't hurt that much anymore.”

Mrs Andrews looked hesitant before she stood up from behind her desk and walked over to Richie. She took a seat next to him and placed her hand on his to stop him from tuning. He looked up at her. “I didn't mean just physically,” she said, tilting her head slightly as if she knew that Richie was aware of exactly what she was talking about. And he supposed he did. “You look burnt out. Is everything going good at home?”

It wasn't particularly good, his father, like he had predicted, seemed disappointed with him. He had told him that it was because he had gotten into a fight, but Richie knew the truth. He knew that had he won the fight, his father would have pretended to be mad with the corners of his lips quirked up. His mother would have scolded her husband for not taking it seriously enough and his father would have just winked at him. But he hadn't won the fight, he had gotten beaten up, and to his father that was shameful.

But that wasn't anyone’s business. He shrugged and averted his eyes. “It’s alright,” he said again. 

“Well, how about your friends? Is everything okay with them?”

And there it was again; that sickening feeling. He hadn't spoken to any of his friends since he had fought with Eddie, and was wondering if they all wanted him to stay away from them now, if they had fallen out with a single fight. He was terrified of them looking at him with grossed out grimaces, so he had pushed them away first. That was something he’d always been good at, no matter how many times he caught Ben staring at him with a sort of platonic longing, no matter how many times Stanley or Bill tried to approach him during lunch or when they were heading home. He had started spending most of his time at the clubhouse where he was alone. Eddie had asked him what he was thinking about in there once, nestled on the hammock with Richie. That seemed like such an old memory now.

“Yeah,” he said defensively, “‘course, why wouldn't it?” 

She was quiet for a moment, inspecting him like he was an animal at the zoo, and he absolutely hated it. He hated being put under the microscope and poked and probed until he broke. “Just wondering,” she said then, soft and quiet. She then regained her composure and cleared her throat. “Have you been practising anything in particular since our last lesson? It was a while ago.”

Richie wanted to tell her about _ Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door, _but the mere thought of the song now brought an almost claustrophobic feeling to his already jumbled up mind. It reminded him of feeling envious and awkward and small, even if it was through correlation. He shrugged. “Nothing big,” he replied, “just random chords. You know, getting my fingers used to it and everything.”

She hummed. “Well, is there a song you’d like to learn? If you can't think of anything I have plenty of songs to choose from.”

He thought for a moment, browsed through the endless music catalog in his head he had expanded over the years, and came across a song he actually enjoyed quite a bit. _ “I Want to Break Free,” _he replied. “It’s a Queen song from a couple years ago.”

Mrs Andrews paused for a moment, a confused frown settling on her pretty face. She took a second to recall the song, then smiled and started humming it excitedly. Richie found himself smiling. “That’s the song that got banned on MTV, isn't it?” she asked. “If I remember correctly the band was cross-dressing in it.” Richie’s smile fell, but she didn't seem to take notice of it as she recalled the music video with a grimace. “You know, it was really messed up; what they did.”

Richie let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, disgusting.”

“I mean, who cares if the guy wants to wear heels? He definitely wore them better than I ever could.”

Richie looked up in surprise to see his teacher seething with anger, and was welcomed with a feeling he had never quite felt before. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded, and the woman let out a sigh.

She turned to him with a serious look on her face. “I’ll let you in on a secret, but you can't tell anyone,” she said seriously, and Richie nodded. She then smiled sadly. “I used to have a friend; she was one of the loveliest people on this godforsaken earth. She was bright and went through very tough things in life. Because, you see,” she inched a little closer to him, “she was born in a boy’s body.”

Richie didn't know how to respond to that, so he kept listening in dumbfounded silence as she continued sadly. “Her family disowned her when she told them that she was a woman, and she lived on the streets for a while until I met her during my college days. I didn't understand her at first, but she was beautiful and so full of life that I couldn't help but become friends with her. We had an apartment together in New York, even a little cat. She would earn money however she could while I continued my education and worked at the same time. It was a tough couple of years.”

Richie swallowed to push down the lump in his throat, but it resided just behind his tongue, making his voice vaver as he spoke. “What happened to her?” he asked quietly, already dreading the answer. When she gave him a sad smile, he didn't even need for her to open her mouth to know what had happened.

“She passed away,” Mrs Andrews muttered. Her eyes were glassy under the grey light coming through the windows. “It wasn't peaceful; she died in so much pain that I can't even begin to fathom what it must have felt like for her. It was around four years ago, I think. Before I met my husband.”

Richie felt reluctant to ask, but this was the first time he had ever heard someone _ unusual, _ someone out of the norm, being talked about with fondness and longing. He had never thought he would meet someone who simply _ accepted _ a person of _ that _ kind, and even went as far as to love them despite of what they were. He ducked his head and swallowed again before asking, “Did she die of… _ you know.” _

And as he had bitterly expected, Mrs Andrews nodded her head. “The doctors refused to even come close to her, they thought she was… _ defective,” _ she said the word angrily, like she had never felt rage quite like that in her life. “They refused to treat her, they were disgusted of her and said that they didn't support her ‘lifestyle’ as if she wasn't born the way she was. They called it a mental illness and left her to die.” She was picking at the carefully applied polish on her manicured nails. “I have never missed a person quite as much as I miss her. And it’s… it’s _ disgusting, _ is what it is, what they did to her. What they _ could have done, _ but _ didn't.” _ She then turned to him with a determined frown. “You must remember to see people for who they are rather than _ what _they are, Richie. There’s too much hatred in the world, and you’re an incredible kid capable of great things.”

Richie felt the tears get dangerously close to slipping out of his eyes, the broken sobs he had been keeping inside for so long get blocked by the lump in his throat, and his body felt all too hot like he was being boiled from the inside out. He couldn't cry, though, he had already disappointed his father and himself more than enough times. He pinched the inside of his wrist to keep himself grounded, the pain causing him to momentarily drift away from his thoughts.

The rest of their practise session went like always, with Richie muttering curses under his breath every time he made a mistake and Mrs Andrews encouraging him and explaining his mistakes and how to fix them. She even grabbed a guitar of her own and started playing with him to make him feel more at ease, and it was surprising to see just how good she was. Richie felt himself smile, the pain in his bottom lip fading away from the glee in his heart, and started cracking jokes like he used to. He had never imagined enjoying spending time with one of his teachers so much, but he had only now come to realise how caring and gentle Mrs Andrews really was, and he couldn't help but wonder just what she was doing in a small town like Derry when she was so talented herself. Deciding that it was a question for another day, he pushed it aside and let himself enjoy the feeling of the strings against his fingers and music in his ears. 

When he bid her goodbye and hopped on his bike he was feeling lighter than he had felt in a while. The roads were slippery with the rain that had fallen a while ago, and the sky was still dark with the clouds shielding the sunlight from coming down to earth, but the smell of wet dirt and grass was enough to open up his lungs and make him able to breathe in more sense than one. 

He paused once he came to his street and saw the Kaspbrak’s house in the distance, a weird sense of guilt churning in his stomach. Now that he was feeling lighter and like he could think clearly, free of envy and self-hatred fuelled anger, he had come to realise that he had to make it up to Eddie sooner rather than later. With a grim feeling he pedalled until he got to his house and got off his bike. The few steps it took to get to the door seemed to stretch out into eternity, but he was pressing the doorbell far sooner than he had prepared to. It wasn't surprising to see Mrs Kaspbrak answer the door with a frown she didn't even try to cover up. 

“I’m here to see Eddie,” he said, not letting his voice vaver. He had to be brave to face him, to talk to him. He couldn't let himself get discouraged just because his mother didn't particularly like him. He tried not to think about whether Eddie still liked him or not. “I need to talk to him about something,” he added as an afterthought. 

Mrs Kaspbrak didn't seem particularly overjoyed and she didn't invite him inside, but she called for Eddie anyway. The couple seconds Richie had to wait for him to reach the door were almost excruciating, but when he saw Eddie’s surprised face everything else seemed to fade away. Mrs Kaspbrak left them alone even though she didn't really look like she wanted to, and after a moment it was just the two of them, standing at the doorway of Eddie’s house with an awkward silence as thick as a brick wall hanging between them. The fact that Eddie didn't slam the door in his face and didn't even seem particularly bothered by his presence was almost comforting, but he didn't exactly look thrilled either. 

Richie felt his heart pound and vaguely wondered if he was having cardiac arrest. He cleared his throat and scuffed the nose of his shoe on the concrete awkwardly, searching for words. In the end he just managed to ask, “Do you want to take a walk or something?”

Eddie seemed reluctant at first but agreed anyway. After putting on a thick coat and boots and a scarf and a beanie — Richie barely held back from teasing him, thinking better of it — he yelled to let his mother know that he was going out, then closed the front door after following Richie outside onto the rain dampened concrete porch. 

It was still awkward as they walked side by side towards McCarron Park, with Richie trying to think of what to say and trying to figure out what Eddie was thinking at the same time. He kicked a pebble.

“I learned how to play _ I Want to Break Free _today,” he said, trying to make some sort of conversation, but Eddie just hummed. Richie let out a sigh and stopped in his tracks. Eddie did the same, his curiosity barely covered by the indifferent expression he had pulled on. His cheeks were flushed again, and it was rather distracting. “Listen,” Richie started, rubbing his hands to keep himself busy. He sighed again. “I’m… I didn't mean to say that.” He didn't know why it was so hard to just come out and apologise, but Eddie was looking at him the way he was; like he was tired and also wanted this to be over with and Richie couldn't even tell if he had missed him as much as Richie had missed Eddie.

After a moment of silence Eddie ducked his head and stared at his shoes. “Yeah, me neither,” he muttered, and it was almost like a stray of sunlight had cracked through the dark clouds to shine upon them. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I went too far, I don't… I don't hate hanging out with you guys.”

Richie let out a laugh; somewhat bitter but more relieved than anything. “Glad to hear,” he replied. 

Eddie glared at him but it lacked the heat from before. If anything it looked like the glare he shot him when Richie finished all the chips or the time he had thrown a worm he'd found on the ground at him. 

“I’m… Listen, man, I’m sorry,” Richie said, and it felt like an entire truck had been crushing him underneath it until that moment. The fresh, damp air filled his lungs. “You can have other friends, I was just… I don't know, you seem like you hate me most of the time, I was jealous that you were becoming better friends with someone else. It’s stupid.”

Eddie’s expression softened, and with it Richie felt his own heart soften. “I don't hate you, dumbass,” he said exasperatedly, but it seemed like for show only. His tone was gentle and tender, Richie didn't know how to feel about the sudden warmth he felt in his ears. Eddie laughed then, short and tired, but the way it made his nose scrunch up was familiar. “You’re so fucking annoying, and you’re loud, obnoxious, always drag me to disgusting places and it’s genuinely so fucking hard to deal with you sometimes.”

Richie frowned. “Gee, thanks, asshole.”

“Let me finish before sulking like a little girl, will you?” Richie rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. “I was going to say that it’s surprising that I still like hanging out with you.” He looked embarrassed as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked away. “We’re friends, you know? I don't get it, but you and I just work well together. It’s annoying, but it is what it is.” He pouted. “It’s not like I have any proper friends other than you guys, and I was just excited that someone actually likes my company. Maybe Chris was a way for me to move past Pennywise and all that, or maybe I was just trying to find someone to fill in instead of Bev, I don't know.”

Richie chuckled. “Not exactly easy, is it?” he asked. Eddie laughed and shook his head. It was silent for a moment, but it wasn't awkward. It was a silence like before; comfortable and not needing to be filled. He took a step closer to Eddie, reluctant, but his friend didn't take a step back. “Are we good?”

Eddie tried to suppress his smile but wasn't quite successful. He punched Richie on the shoulder good-naturedly. “‘Course we are. This whole thing was stupid.” Richie agreed. “Hey, because you were being an emo little shit we couldn't tell you, but Ben found a cool hut in the woods.”

Richie quirked a brow. 

“It’s abandoned, as far as we can tell. We were planning on spending the night there,” Eddie continued. “Not that I’m thrilled, but Billy seemed really excited about it. God, I don't even want to think about the dust and everything.”

Richie grinned and nudged Eddie with his shoulder. “Is this you inviting me to spend the night with you guys?” he asked playfully.

“No,” Eddie deadpanned before nudging him harder, “this is me telling you that you have no choice but to come with us. If I have to suffer then so do you.”

—

The rest of their friends seemed quite happy to have Richie back with them, pestering and teasing him until he threatened to put spiders in their clothes while they slept. Ben, who had always been rather maternal in the way he cared for his friends, approached him while they were hiking up the hill towards where he had found the hut. He stayed quiet for a while until Richie made him jump by poking him on the side. 

“What’s up, Haystack?” he teased. “Miss me that much?”

Ben smiled shyly, and although he wouldn't admit it, Richie had missed him quite a bit. “Just glad you’re talking to us again,” he replied with a shrug. Richie felt his guts churn with guilt and to hide it, he shoved him by the shoulder.

“Your mother and I just had an argument, son, nothing to worry about,” he said, turning his head at the right moment to spot the glare Eddie sent his direction. He grinned at him.

“Well, I was wondering,” Ben continued, looking somewhat nervous, “what was the fight about? Eddie wouldn't tell us.”

Richie was surprised to hear that, he’d thought Eddie would have gone to the rest of their friend group to vent about him as soon as he had left his house, much like how he would come to Richie when he fought with anyone else. He threw a glance at him again, but he was preoccupied with rolling his eyes at something Bill had said.

“It wasn't anything important,” he heard himself say, and then ripped his gaze away from Eddie to look back at Ben. He smiled. “Honestly, some dumb shit. I can't even remember it that well.”

Ben didn't seem convinced with his answer but he dropped it anyway, because of course, as the person who seemed to want everybody’s happiness the most, he often steered the conversation away when someone seemed reluctant to talk about it further. Richie was somewhat grateful to that, Ben was easy to talk to.

The hut was nothing elegant; it was incredibly old and looked to be on the verge of collapsing, with moss and vines hanging from the sides of the rotten wood planks and the door that was impossible to close, creaking with every little breeze. There was an old green couch sitting in front of it. It seemed like the owner — whoever it was — had brought it there when it had started looking like it could fall apart at any given moment. Richie asked Ben how he had found it, and Ben simply shrugged and told him that he had wanted to take a little walk.

Richie, Bill and Ben went to work looking for dry wood and branches for a small campfire while Eddie, Mike and Stanley tried to clean up the surrounding area of the hut as much as they could. Richie grabbed a snail from the ground and teased Ben with it for a while before returning to the job at hand. He didn't think it was particularly thrilling to be looking for wood as the sun disappeared over the hills slowly, painting the sky orange and pink and purple, and made it quite vocal how much his back hurt and how it was pointless and how he was _ tired, _but continued pushing bushes aside to look for branches while complaining nonetheless. Bill told him to shut up multiple times, while Ben just laughed to himself.

When they reached the hut they dumped the wood on the ground and Richie threw himself on the couch — someone had moved it a bit farther away from the hut, closer to the woods — and yelled about being too tired to even lift a finger. Eddie nagged at him for being lazy while the rest of them rolled their eyes and got to work on building the campfire. There were a bunch of alcohol bottles laid out on the ground, mostly stolen from Bill and Richie’s fathers and Eddie’s mother, containing anything from red wine to tequila. Richie had never really drank alcohol before, not counting the occasional sip or two his father would peer pressure him into taking, and the idea of getting drunk in the middle of the woods with his best friends by his side was almost thrilling to think about.

Around half an hour — and quite a bit of bickering — later there was a small campfire burning bright amidst the darkness of the night. They had already emptied the bottle of red wine and at least six bottles of beer, which were now haphazardly thrown on the grass. Richie felt pleasantly buzzed and somewhat sleepy as he played around with Ben and Eddie, wrestling and shoving each other and cracking jokes. It was nearing midnight when he finally threw himself on the couch once again, his limbs heavy and his heart content, watching Stanley try to teach Bill and Mike, who looked awfully confused, how to waltz. He didn't register Eddie take a seat next to him until he felt something cold against his cheek and jumped.

Eddie giggled as he pulled the flask away and took a swig from it. His cheeks were more flushed than ever, his dark eyes sparkling with the embers of the fire. He was drunk, there was no doubt about it; he was far too small and skinny to be sober after the amount of alcohol he had consumed. He offered the flask to Richie, who accepted it and took a sip, scrunching his face when he tasted the bitter whiskey.

“They look like they’re having fun,” Eddie slurred, pointing at the group — Ben had joined as well, trying to help Stanley since he was the only other person who knew how to waltz. It wasn't all that surprising. Richie nodded before taking another sip and pushing through the burn as the whiskey went down his throat, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake.

“Do you want to try?” he asked teasingly as he handed the flask back to Eddie, who snorted before taking a swig. It was odd, seeing his small, precious Eddie down the bitter alcohol so quickly, but it was also endearing. 

When he pulled the flask down he scrunched up his nose cutely. “Don't think I’d be any good,” he said.

“You can hardly call _ that _good,” Richie pointed out, nodding towards his friends stumbling and giggling. When he turned back to Eddie, he was surprised to see a small, closed-lipped, soft smile on his face. He tensed up momentarily. “What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie replied, scratching a patch of skin on his inner forearm, “just glad you’re here, is all.”

Richie cooed at him, burying himself deeper on the dusty cushions of the couch. “If I’d known you’d miss me so much, I would have sent you a custom dildo,” he said, reaching to pinch Eddie’s flushed cheek. Eddie made a gagging sound and grabbed his hand to pull it away from his face, but didn't let go of it. His hand was awfully small compared to Richie’s, something he had never really realise before. It only made Eddie cuter in his eyes, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Richie didn't feel disgusted by himself for finding Eddie endearing. It was a simple fact; just like how gravity was real, Eddie was cute. He was small and adorable, with his big, dark eyes and little gestures and awkward mannerisms. A part of Richie wanted to cuddle with him.

“Come on,” he said as he pulled Eddie up by his hand, ignoring the noises of protest he let out as he was forcefully dragged onto his feet. Richie grinned at him and bowed slightly, placing one arm behind himself and reaching the other out for Eddie. “Care to dance, miss?”

Eddie rolled his eyes and muttered, “Fuck off, Tozier,” but reluctantly took Richie’s hand anyway. They were a bit farther away from the rest of their friends, but their obnoxious laughter was still loud as ever. “There isn't even any music,” he complained, obviously trying to pull himself free from the situation he had found himself in, but Richie just grinned and pulled him closer to himself, placing his hand on Eddie’s small waist. Now that he was so close to him, he realised once again that Eddie had grown taller; not as tall as him, still, but most likely taller than Ben.

“We’ll just make do,” he said, grabbing Eddie’s hand. Had he been sober, he wouldn't even dream of touching Eddie the way he was; so intimate and, although he was afraid to admit it, almost romantic. He had to pause for a moment and digest the word, the mood surrounding them, and if he pushed aside the pretence of joking around with one of his best friends, he could see how an outsider would view their position as a bit more than platonic. He swallowed and tried to excuse his behaviour on the alcohol. 

They were both awful at it, they realised, but it didn't stop them from swinging side to side clumsily. Eddie kept looking down at his feet to make sure he didn't step on Richie’s — and the few times he did seemed suspiciously intentional — and Richie was reluctant to admit it, but it was _ fun _to be so close to Eddie, to be awkwardly dancing with him. 

Slowly, the background noise of their friends faded away, and it was just the two of them. When Eddie finally raised his gaze from his feet and gave him an exasperated look, Richie felt his insides get warm and fuzzy. He wondered if he had really had too much to drink, if the whiskey had been the final drop he had needed to have alcohol poisoning. He didn't think he was _ that _drunk, but perhaps believing that all of his actions were caused by alcohol would be easier to digest. 

“You suck at this,” he teased as a way to deal with the growing heat in his cheeks, thanking the light cast behind him for hiding his face in the shadows. Eddie huffed out a laugh and repositioned his hand on Richie’s shoulder.

“You’re not exactly a Prince Charming either,” he shot back, grinning, and Richie suddenly found himself enamoured by that smile. He had never really noticed before — not actively, anyway — but Eddie was really beautiful when he smiled. He had so many worry lines etched into his face from the many things they had done over the years, but he seemed his age — or even younger — when he actually smiled. Then his grin fell slightly; not ceasing to exist but remaining as more of a closed-lipped smile. He was so warm; his hand in Richie’s, his eyes that rivaled the light of the fire’s, his smile that seemed so soft and so genuine that Richie had to wonder if Eddie was like him, only to push the thought away as soon as it had appeared. 

Then Eddie’s eyes glided to the healing cut on Richie’s bottom lip, and suddenly they were far too close, and Richie felt, with his blood freezing in his veins, his heart skip a beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll get around to editing this fic... one day


	5. Chapter 5

When Richie woke up it was to the sound of birds chirping, warm rays of sunlight hitting his face, and a pounding headache that made him feel like cracking his skull open with a hammer. There was a taste stuck to his tongue that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times he smacked his mouth. The thing he was laying on didn’t seem like his bed; it was far too uncomfortable, and he couldn’t breathe well, there seemed to be something heavy on top of him. He frowned and groggily opened his eyes, his lashes stuck together, and the first thing he saw was a mess of black hair, tangled and sticking in weird places. The person on top of him moved with a groan, and Eddie’s face, still relaxed with sleep, came into his vision. 

It took Richie a moment to realise that Eddie was draped over him on the old couch in the middle of the woods, their limbs tangled together, his head resting on Richie’s chest and his arms clinging onto his body as he slept. He then remembered what had happened the previous night; the memories of alcohol and laughter, waltzing, and Eddie so close to him that if someone had pushed him in the slightest he would have…

He frowned and looked around to distract himself from the way Eddie nuzzled his chest in his sleep. The rest of his friends were still fast asleep; Stanley and Ben were sharing a sleeping bag while Mike and Bill seemed comfortable enough on blankets laid out on the ground. Bill had sprawled out like a starfish and had one hand laying on top of Mike’s face. Richie would have taken a photo of it if he had his camera with him, and also wasn't glued to the couch by Eddie’s weight.

He reluctantly turned his head towards Eddie once again, hoping and praying that the events of the previous night had been induced by alcohol and nothing else. Eddie looked so peaceful in his sleep with his lips parted, his body curled up slightly. His dark eyelashes fluttered over his cheeks as his eyelids twitched, his hair was falling into his face in soft tufts. There were a some freckles scattered on his cheekbones. Richie felt it again; the oddly erratic beating of his heart and the overwhelmingly warm feeling spreading through his body. He wanted to deny it, push the feeling of being enamoured by his sleeping friend on the fact that his brain was still barely awake and functioning, but deep within his subconscious he knew that that wasn't why he wanted to gently fix Eddie’s hair and push it out of his eyes. He felt like he was going to be sick, he wanted to shove his friend away from him so that he could finally breathe, he wanted to hold him closer and hope he wouldn't wake up for a while.

To his disappointment — was what he felt _ disappointment? _ — Eddie frowned once again in his sleep and slowly started shifting on top of Richie. His eyes fluttered open and Richie was faced with his dark eyes, now illuminated by the morning light and still dark enough to be considered black, and they stared at each other. Watching him when he was asleep was one thing, but now that he could look into his eyes and see everything Eddie couldn't hide behind his usually annoyed or indifferent demeanour, it almost felt like there were snakes crawling inside his stomach, curling and tangling and squeezing. Richie tried to say something, perhaps make a joke or tease him to get himself out of the rather awkward situation, but nothing came out. He gaped like a fish, searching for words, searching for _ anything _to say, but his brain was short circuiting and there was heat rising in his cheeks and ears and neck and he wanted to cry or throw up or go back to sleep.

Eddie was about to say something when he paused, shoved himself off of Richie and sprinted towards the woods as his friend watched, dumbfounded. Eddie dropped to his knees a couple of meters away from the hut and started retching, slapping one hand on a tree trunk to keep himself stable. He heaved and threw up whatever was in his stomach, while Richie couldn't even move from his spot on the couch.

The sounds seemed to wake up Mike, who complained about Bill’s hand on his face and shoved it away hard enough for Bill to awaken. He grabbed his head and complained about how his head hurt, but Richie couldn't reply to them, his eyes still stuck to Eddie panting heavily. Bill asked him a question as he shook Stanley and Ben awake, but Richie was near deaf with embarrassment. He ripped his eyes away from Eddie and rubbed his face to hide the blush blossoming under his skin.

They started cleaning up around the hut a while later, when everyone was awake and sober enough to stand on their feet without stumbling. They all groaned in pain every now and then, especially Eddie who seemed to be the most hungover in the group, but after about half an hour the empty bottles were in their backpacks and they were making their way down the hill. Bill complained about being hungry, one hand over his stomach, and Ben offered them breakfast at his house. Richie just said that he needed to get more sleep or he would drop dead within an hour or so, and Eddie agreed, nodding with his face still ashen and like death itself. Richie still felt awkward, he didn't even know if Eddie remembered anything from the previous night, but he wasn't used to the two of them being so quiet. He tried to tease Eddie about his alcohol tolerance, but his friend just glared and flipped him off. 

They crossed the bridge and walked until they reached the intersection that was connected to the street Richie and Eddie lived on, and despite the need to not be alone with Eddie when he was feeling so awkward, they had to bid the rest of their friends goodbye and walk their separate ways. 

Richie stuffed his hands into his pockets awkwardly. “So, last night was fun,” he tried, but even he could hear how lame he sounded, his voice strained. Eddie shot him a weird look before smiling slightly. The warm feeling akin to snakes crawling in his stomach returned.

“I guess,” he replied. Then paused for a moment, and added as an afterthought, “Yeah, it was fun.”

“You really shouldn't drink that much when you’re so tiny,” Richie teased, having a bit more confidence now that Eddie was replying to him. 

“Fuck off,” Eddie replied, only to groan and press a hand against his forehead. “My head feels like it’s going to crack open.”

“So it that a no to drinking from now on?”

“Wish I could say that,” Eddie said then.

They stopped in front of the Kaspbrak’s house and awkwardly lingered until they made eye contact and burst into giggles. “I really don't know how I’m going to explain why I look like shit to my mom,” Eddie said, seemingly already dreading entering his house. “If she doesn't realise that I’ve been drinking, she’s going to think I’m on the brink of death.”

“To be fair,” Richie said, swaying back and forth on his heels, “you _ look _like you’re on the brink of death.”

Eddie scoffed. “You don't look so pretty yourself,” he replied. 

“I always look pretty,” Richie replied smugly, “it’s part of my charm.”

Eddie threw a glance at his house and let out a sigh. “I should probably go in,” he said. Richie nodded, his lips pressed together tightly as to not let himself speak and perhaps even ask him to come over. He was tired, his body and his head ached, and he desperately needed some more sleep until the pain would be washed away on its own. He waved at Eddie as his friend climbed up the steps to his front door, turned around, and walked as fast as he possibly could without raising suspicion. He shot a glance back at Eddie’s house and saw his friend quickly enter through the door. 

He barely managed to greet his parents as he power walked across the house and up the stairs before he walked into his room and closed the door behind him. He took a moment to just lean against the wood and take a couple deep breaths, his mind racing with thoughts of Eddie and his smile and the way he had run into his house when Richie looked back. As his mind cleared second after second so did the memories of the previous night; the memories of Eddie’s soft hand in his — he had teased him about using moisturizer countless times before — his small smile being lit up by the fire behind Richie, how he had looked so nervous and puzzled by the simple act of slow dancing, how his eyes had caught the embers and swallowed them like two black holes. And then there was the Eddie he had seen in the morning; groggy and sleepy and cuddly and small, with his hair messy from sleep and his head heavy on Richie’s chest. How the freckles on his skin looked like stars scattered across the galaxy. Richie felt sick, he was panicking and breathing hard and trying to push the thoughts away while they insisted on staying. He told himself that it was just his mind playing tricks on him, just him seeing something where there was nothing to see, telling himself that everything was the same as it had been before. He desperately wanted to take a shower and scrub at his skin, but his body was so heavy that it felt like his feet were buried in cement.

He crawled into his bed and pulled the covers up until the bottom half of his face was covered and shut his eyes tightly, trying to force sleep into claiming his body and giving his mind a rest, but his brain was far too stubborn. He buried his face in his pillow and let out a groan, because even though he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and _ leave, _he also felt the funny, warm feeling return with the thought of Eddie. He tugged at his hair until it hurt enough for him to groan once more, caused by pain this time. He wished everything would go back to the way it had been before that night, before he realised everything unique and mundane about his best friend and before he wanted to be closer to him. 

And then he realised that everything was exactly the way it had been before that night, he just hadn't been aware of it when he realised things about Eddie, he hadn't delved into wanting to touch Eddie or hug him or tease him, before he overthought anything and everything about his best friend. 

He once again missed that euphoric moment of painful bliss when Belch had beaten him up, those couple of minutes that had been so full of excruciating pain and adrenaline being pumped into his body that his brain hadn't had the time to think about anything other than surviving. He missed the momentary feeling of ignorance towards his own feelings and thoughts. He let go of his hair and rubbed his face, biting his lips and thinking _ what if? _ He then pushed the thought away, almost bitterly laughing at himself because he was _ not _about to inflict pain on himself for something that would probably pass in a week or so. He nodded to himself, desperate, needing his thoughts to evaporate into nothing. He was just confused, he told himself over and over, he was confused because he was having an odd time and his teachers had mentioned weird thoughts during puberty, hadn't they? It was just a phase, clearly, because Eddie wasn't particularly masculine like Bill or Mike and Richie hadn't talked to a girl other than Mrs Andrews since Beverly had left, and it wasn't like he had been attracted to either of them. 

_ You’re a fucking liar, Tozier, _a small, familiar voice in his head said, almost intruding, but he drowned it out with thoughts of blissful denial. He didn't think about that boy in the arcade a couple months back, he didn't think about the time he had stolen his mother’s secret magazines, he didn't think about Eddie’s smile. He just closed his eyes tightly and forced himself to go to sleep, promising himself that the thoughts would go away when he awoke. 

When he did wake up the sky outside was getting dark, the gentle and by then familiar pitter-pattering of rain a comforting sound, and he just laid there until his brain had time to catch up with everything. He looked at the clock on his bedside table and saw that it was nearing six in the evening, how he had managed to sleep for so long without anyone waking him up was a mystery. He heard his mother’s voice, calling him down for dinner, but he just yelled back that he wasn't hungry despite the way his stomach was cramping. He felt like he would throw up if he managed to eat as much as a bite. He curled into himself and wrapped his arms around his lower torso, frowning at the pain shooting through his abdomen every now and again. He could hear voices downstairs; his mother saying something, his father replying with a little more heat to his tone, but he couldn't make out any words. He turned on music as loud as it could go until there was nothing else he could hear.

—

To his credit, Richie had been going to school even after his small breakdown after the night of camping near the hut, partly because he couldn't bear to be alone with his thoughts in the silence of his room and mostly because his mother was rather strict about not missing school unless he looked like his soul was about to be reaped. His parents liked the idea of having a well-educated son who could support himself and go to college after high school, and they didn't believe in mental issues being permanent or a big enough deal to miss out on life and particularly on education. So he had been getting dressed with the enthusiasm of a corpse every morning, eating breakfast with his family without uttering a single word, hopping on his bike and pushing down the fuzzy feeling that had been growing familiar whenever he spotted Eddie waving at him with sleep clinging to his eyes.

The weather had been getting colder and colder with each day, the roads were almost frozen and it was only a matter of time before they got the first snow of that year. Richie didn't try especially hard to dress warmer, and refused thinking about doing so just to hear Eddie fuss over him each morning, complaining about how he was going to catch a cold again and how he didn't want Richie to be spreading his germs to him as well. Although he had already been dressing in multiple layers since the beginning of autumn, Eddie now often resembled a pile of clothes with only the hint of human existence beneath them. He would often wear a long grey scarf he wrapped around his neck until even his nose was buried in it. Richie called him adorable for that, and Eddie only proved his point by sulking cutely.

He knew that he was acting suspicious; his friends — especially Ben and Bill, who were ever so caring — kept asking him if he was alright, and he always responded with an off-hand remark about being fine followed by a bad joke, just to keep up the façade. But he was tired, he didn't feel the motivation to open his mouth and say anything, during most days he barely felt like getting out of bed. There was a bone-deep exhaustion that had seeped into his body and persisted on dragging him down. He wasn't exactly sad, but like the feeling of his hands after holding onto the frozen handlebars of his bike, he felt numb.

He was still doing well at school — he presumed his parents would be anything but happy if he let his messed up brain get in the way of his grades — and he still talked, but the days seemed to blur into one another after a while. Mrs Andrews had said something about seasonal depression once. He didn't think he was depressed, he just felt tired. Tired of his brain keeping him up at night, tired of his body flushing and doing unnecessary and embarrassing things when he saw Eddie, tired of people asking him what was wrong with him.

He hadn't stopped visiting the clubhouse, of course. The old door could barely be opened through the thick layer of ice that often covered it, and it was absolutely freezing inside, but it was still his small pocket of peace. It was quiet there, he could sit down on the grown or lay in the hammock and play his guitar for hours if he wanted to. He had been getting good too, despite his lack of concentration at times. His fingertips had started growing calluses.

It was one of those days where he was walking through the woods in the direction of the clubhouse, his body operating on muscle memory and his mind wondering about something to do with octopi. He had memorised the way and knew how everything looked, so when a colourful, unfamiliar object lying on the ground next to a bush caught his eye, he immediately knew that it hadn't been there before. He looked around to see if there were any people nearby, and walked away from the path just a little to see what the object was. He flushed when he saw it clearly — a magazine, but not a regular one. The cover was bright purple and featured a tanned, handsome young man, completely nude but with the picture of another, also rather good-looking man covering up everything that needed to be covered, with the word _ PlayGuy _ written in bold yellow letters at the very top. He knew that he needed to throw it on the ground and continue up the path, but something about the magazine made him grip onto it tighter, his eyes traveling from headline to headline on the cover; _ Queer Rights, Barely Legal Twinks, Dirty Blondes. _His gaze went back to the nude man, glided down his chest and until it reached his lower abdomen, and he quickly shut his eyes and tried to breathe.

He felt dirty, like even touching the magazine that was clearly not meant to cater to _ normal _ people made him become some sort of a pervert. He had never worried about coming across as a pervert before, he was perfectly fine with making crude jokes and saying obscene things just to get a reaction out of people, but _ this _was disgusting. He wanted to throw it on the ground or in the trash or burn it. He was about to put it down when an idea came to his mind; an idea that almost made him fear his own sanity, but could also be a ticket to redemption and freedom. He always insisted that he wasn't defective, that he was normal, and he knew that himself, but his mind liked to wander off and think about the most unnecessary things. He liked girls, he must have liked girls. Girls were pretty and wore bright colours and tied their hair in cute ponytails. They had dark eyelashes and pretty skin. He must have liked girls because he was nothing like the men on the cover of the magazine, but his mind didn't think on the same wavelength as him. He needed to prove it to himself, and then everything would be fine, everything would be back to normal.

He glanced around to make sure whoever the owner of the magazine was, they weren't there to see him stuff it into his backpack. He jumped up to his feet and returned to the path, his hands freezing from the cold and an insistent feeling of guilt churning in his stomach. His backpack seemed heavier with the presence of the magazine even though it barely weighed anything.

Richie entered the clubhouse like he would during any other day; freezing and tired and ready to wrap one of the blankets around himself in search for some warmth, but this time he just closed the door and sat down on the floor. He unzipped the backpack after a moment of hesitation, promising himself that he would feel absolutely nothing, because that’s how he had always felt towards porn since the first time he had seen it. He remembered it rather clearly; Stanley coming up to them excitedly, clutching an anatomy book. The rest of them had given him confused glances until he opened the book to show them the nude picture of a woman. He could recall not feeling anything but playing along with his friends back then.

He stared at the nude model on the cover and bit his lip, anxiously looked around as if someone other than him could even be there, and took a moment before he opened the cover and looked at the first page. It wasn't anything hardcore like he had imagined, but the picture made his cheeks flush scarlet. Blaming the warmth under his skin on the cold, he carefully looked at the picture; it was of a young man, around twenty or so, with strawberry blonde hair and freckles scattered across his face and naked chest. He was posing for the camera with half-lidded eyes and the smallest of smirks on his pouty lips, and his hand was out of shot, along with everything else Richie had expected to see. He was really handsome, Richie thought without even realising, and his hands were shaking as he turned the page. _ This isn't doing anything for me, it’s not doing anything, it’s not… _

The next picture was something more along the lines of Richie’s expectations, but that didn't stop him from blushing harder. This time it was the same guy but along with another, older looking man sporting a moustache and a tank top that had ridden up enough for his abs to be visible. The older man’s face was scrunched with pleasure as the strawberry blonde haired one sucked him off, his eyes once again half-lidded and filled with arousal. Richie suddenly didn't feel all that cold in the freezing clubhouse.

He glanced over the rest of the pages in a hurry, trying not to look at them for too long. _ It’s just sex, _ he thought to himself, _ it doesn't mean anything. _But the further he got, the harder it became to breathe through his nose, harder to sit still and not squirm in what he believed was discomfort. He was almost at the last section, almost at the gates of freedom, when he found himself unable to turn the page. The photo was nothing any more or less raunchy than the others, but Richie’s breath was stuck in his throat as he tried to unsuccessfully rip his eyes off the model. He was also young, the cover promised that the models were all adults but this one in particular looked much younger, with a babyface that resembled sixteen more than it did eighteen. He had short, dark hair that was parted at the side and he was fairly skinny compared to the rest of the models. He was small and cute, with dark doe eyes. He looked like Eddie; a slightly older, sexier, more confident version of him. He wasn't an exact replica; his nose was larger than Eddie’s, his skin didn't contain the galaxy of freckles like Eddie’s did, his hair was more of a chestnut colour than almost black, but if Richie were to take his glasses off and look at the picture at an angle, he could believe that to be a picture of his best friend, or at least a very similar looking older brother. 

He forcefully closed the magazine and threw it on the ground a couple inches away from himself, buried his face in his hands, and tried to breathe. He took his glasses off to press his fingers against his closed eyelids until he could see colour blooming in the darkness, ran his hands through his hair and put his glasses back on. His entire body was warm and flushed, he had never quite felt like that while looking at porn. He blamed it on the contents being rather taboo and therefore thrilling, he blamed it on never having seen gay porn before, he blamed it on being reminded of his best friend and being disgusted by that thought, but somehow his mind always came back to the thought of finding those pictures arousing. 

He had picked the magazine up for _ one _ reason; to prove to himself that he wasn't some disgusting pervert destined to be an outcast, and he couldn't handle that reason being thrown right back at his face. He hit the back of his head against the wooden wall of the clubhouse again and again, his eyes shut, but all he could see behind his closed eyelids was that last picture. His throat was dry and he felt uncomfortable in his pants, in his own body. He had jerked off before, he doubted anyone hadn't — he wondered if Eddie had done it, or if he found it too dirty and gross — but this was different. He wasn't _ supposed to _be aroused by those images, by that picture that resembled his best friend so much that it had made those snakes reappear in his stomach. 

He tried to think of Beverly, because despite never feeling attracted to her the way Bill and Ben had been, he knew that she was pretty. He recalled the time she had jokingly flirted with him and how flustered he had been, thinking that that must mean _ something. _ Then he thought of that pretty girl in his chemistry class, the one who with the blonde hair and curves who always chewed on her pencil. He thought of her naked, doing things like what he had seen in cheap VCR porn, and he was pleased to find that the warmth he had felt before didn't leave his body. He let out a sigh of relief. _ It’s just sex, _ he thought again, _ it’s just sex. _The girl in his mind was giving some faceless guy a blowjob, pushing her blonde hair out of her eyes and smiling. He felt relief wash over him as the camera in his mind panned upwards, away from the girl and showing the pleasure filled expression of a dark haired, freckled guy. Richie opened his eyes immediately and buried his face in his knees. He wanted to burn the magazine and his memories along with it.

He pinched his inner forearm hard enough for it to bruise, but the pain wasn't enough this time. He frantically started looking around the clubhouse to find something that could _ distract _ him, his eyes searching in panic, until they landed on a piece of glass sitting on the ground. He didn't even think before he reached for it. It was somewhat blunt on most edges, but one of the corners was rather sharp. He pressed it into his upper forearm, high enough for it to not be visible if it were to leave a scar. _ Eddie would freak out about me catching tetanus if he saw, _ his mind whispered unhelpfully, and he pressed it harder until there was a small bead of blood collecting on the broken skin. He clenched his teeth, his hands shaking as he tried to hold onto the piece of glass, but it was working. The pain was enough for his brain to momentarily drift away from a pair of dark eyes to crimson and adrenaline. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, he felt like his teeth would shatter if he clenched his jaw any harder, and it felt _ good. _

When he realised what he was doing, when his mind finally had the time to catch up with the actions of his body, he threw the glass shard hard enough for it to hit the wall on the other side of the clubhouse. His widened eyes turned to the tiny cut on his forearm, a small amount of blood seeping out and rolling down his skin lazily. He pressed a hand on the wound to stop the blood and wondered what the _ hell _he was doing. When he lifted his hand there was a couple drops of blood staining his palm.

—

“What’s that?” Stanley asked, grabbing ahold of Richie’s arm to take a closer look at the healing cut on his forearm. Richie looked down at the spot as well, remembering what he had done in the clubhouse only vaguely; like he hadn't done anything but rather seen it in a movie a long time ago.

“Just a little cut,” he replied, and his tone was far too stable, far too indifferent. “I was petting a cat. Motherfucker scratched the hell out of me.” The lie fell out of his mouth far too easily. He felt a little sick, but he knew that his expression was unreadable. 

“Yikes,” Stanley said, letting go of his arm to place his fingers on the buttons of the arcade game again. “Do you think you’ll get rabies or something?”

“If I do, the first one I’m biting is you, Stan,” Richie replied, not taking his eyes off the screen as the little green dragon jumped and got hit by another enemy. “Fuck this!” he yelled, shoving himself off the console. “I’m sick of _ Bubble Bobble, _ let’s play something else.”

Stanley pouted. “I like _ Bubble Bobble, _though.”

“That’s because you’re still a baby,” Richie replied, looking around. “How about _ Street Fighter?” _

“That’s _ boring,” _Stanley said, scrunching up his nose.

“It’s a _ classic _ ,” Richie corrected as he walked towards the machine already occupied by someone else, Stanley followed his lead after throwing a longing glance at _ Bubble Bobble _one final time. Richie crossed his arms and watched the boy play the game for a while before digging a coin out of his pocket and placing it on the deck. The boy wasn't all that good. He died a couple of seconds later, slapped the top of the machine in frustration, and turned around. When their eyes met, Richie froze in his spot.

He remembered him, with his curly blonde hair that was now cut shorter than before, bright blue eyes that were enlarged with recognition and surprise, and cute moles on his cheeks. Richie’s heart started thumping in his chest, it was as if time itself had slowed down for him to take in the boy’s appearance. Connor, Henry’s cousin Richie had spent so much time playing at the arcade with, who was nowhere near as good as Richie but smiled and admitted defeat whenever he lost, whose gazes and hands lingered, who had stabbed him in the back as soon as saw Bowers approaching them with his gang. Richie felt his body freeze with shock, with horror reminiscent of the past, with humiliation the boy had induced. 

Connor opened his mouth to speak, his pouty lips agape to say something, but Richie quickly turned around and sprinted out of the arcade without a word, leaving his coin on the deck. His body was hot and cold at the same time, his heart pumping adrenaline into his veins in an almost primal way. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, ready to punch Connor in the face, but was met with the confused face of Stanley, who was panting from trying to catch up to him.

“Who… who _ was _that? What the hell, Rich?” he asked, leaning on his knees to take a breather. Richie glanced back at the arcade but couldn't see the boy anywhere.

“No one,” he replied, shaking his head. “Sorry, Stan, I just felt really sick all of a sudden. Do you want to go get a bite instead?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since i don't actually know the cousin's name (i really looked for it but it doesn't say) i had to name him something. if you actually know his name please tell me so i can change it!!!


	6. Chapter 6

Richie tried to focus on the numbers laid out on the page in front of him, but his mind was so jumbled up and jittery that they resembled a language he had never seen before. He bit the bottom of his pencil, started tapping it on the desk to create some sort of noise that would give his brain a break, but his attempts were fruitless. He was tired. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. The immediate picture that came into his head was that of Connor at the arcade, looking as dumbfounded as Richie had felt, and the way his mouth opened to form words right before Richie sprinted out, feeling sick. He opened his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. He took his glasses off and rubbed his face tiredly. The light coming in through the window was grey and tiring to look at; an imagery of depression that wonderfully matched the inner turmoil going on within him.

He started tapping on the desk then, and it was familiar to him although it took a few moments to recognise the song;  _ Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.  _ He let out another sigh, finally coming to terms with not being able to get any work done, and got to his feet before pulling on a jacket and walking out of his bedroom.

His mother was sitting at the dining table when he came down the stairs, solving a crossword puzzle with her reading glasses sitting elegantly on the bridge of her nose. The room was filled with the quiet mumblings of the radio on the counter. When he made his way towards the door she put her pen down on the table. “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, lifting a brow in curiosity. Richie paused in front of the door.

“Just out,” he replied, “for a while. I’m going to ask Stanley if he can help me with the homework.”

Her expression wasn't exactly satisfied, but she didn't say anything. “They say there’s a snow storm coming,” she said then, placing her hands flat on the table and leaning forward slightly. 

Richie shrugged. “We’ll be inside.” He opened the door and waved his mother goodbye. 

When he hopped on his bike he already knew that he had no intention of going to Stanley’s house. Although his friend could have been useful as distraction — he had mentioned his ‘cool uncle’ gifting him a copy of  _ Castlevania  _ — he didn't think he wanted anything to do with other people. It was almost surprising, how isolated he had become since the start of whatever his mixed feelings and thoughts were. He didn't want to look people in the eyes and wonder if they could tell what he was going through —  _ I’m not going through anything,  _ he thought to himself bitterly — and it was almost as maddening as locking himself up in his room with nothing other than the thoughts that made him go insane with anxiety.

It was cold outside, much colder than he remembered it being that year, and he was shivering in his windbreaker he had grabbed on impulse without another second to think it through. His fingers felt numb on the handlebars of his bike, the road was slippery under the tires as he made his way through the familiar streets and passed his friends’ houses. The streets were mainly empty save for a couple of people rushing to get to their homes with the storm approaching; a mother and his daughter walking quickly, a man in a nice looking suit looking disgruntled at a stop light, checking his watch every few seconds, a young girl with grocery bags hanging from her wrists… He looked at them and wondered how they led their lives, if they had thoughts that would intrude on their most peaceful moments, until a car behind him honked and he was brought back to the real world where he had stopped in the middle of the road to observe people.

The school looked almost abandoned when there were no students walking in or out of the gates, when the sky was so dark that it resembled one of those horror movies Mrs Kaspbrak never let Eddie watch, never knowing that when he was staying over at Richie’s house they would be bundled up in the living room, way past their bedtime, clinging onto a bowl of popcorn as the heroine wandered into the falling apart buildings. The school building was old, Richie had never learned exactly how old but going by the photos Ben had showed him before he reckoned that it must be over fifty. The school had used that as an excuse to never install proper insulation or heating, so the corridors and classrooms he walked by were absolutely freezing. The halls were dark, devoid of any human life, and Richie could have found it rather creepy if it wasn't so calming, quiet. Almost like the woods, or the clubhouse. He had never thought he would find high school a calming place.

He entered the empty music room and stood there for a moment, watched the grey clouds take over the sky through the window. He then picked up the guitar that almost seemed like it had been waiting for his return. He doubted anyone else showed it the kind of care he did. He grabbed it by the neck, held it up gently, and sat on the floor with his back to the wall before he settled it on his thigh.

Music was calming, it was a way for him to empty his mind as he relied on his muscle memory to play the couple songs he had managed to learn. He wasn't excellent at it, but a couple months worth of practise seemed to shine through as his fingertips glided over the strings and filled the room with a soft, quiet melody. He was humming as he didn't particularly feel like singing; he liked the sound of quiet that was undisturbed by the voices of people, he liked to imagine the guitar having a voice of its own, using his humming as a backtrack. As he played  _ Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,  _ reminded of the churning, heavy feeling in his stomach when he had seen Eddie with Christ Zimmerman, the corners of his lips quirked up slightly.

He didn't know how long he had been playing for when he heard the sound of wild winds outside of the window. When he looked up, he couldn't see anything from the snow that was flying by so fast that it looked like a solid piece of white, pulled over the entire town to perhaps make him ignorant to the passage of time. He stared at it for a while, his brain numb and not cooperating for a moment or two, until he remembered what his mother had said before he had gone out. It was the first proper snow of the year, he expected it to be around sixy inches or so when the storm stopped and the snow settled, but going by the furious way in which the flakes fell on the earth, he reckoned that it could be more. He wondered if they would have a snow day, then wondered if he even  _ wanted  _ it to be a snow day. 

He was cold, but not in the way that made one shiver and made their teeth clatter, but more in the way that made one awfully sleepy. His eyes were closing as he listened to the sound of the winds clashing against the window and howling through the darkened sky, the sound of water dripping from the ceiling somewhere, the sound of the emptiness that echoed throughout the huge high school building. It was calming in the sense of the thought of the void being calming; an almost nihilistic thought that went along the lines of,  _ Nothing exists.  _ It felt like nothing existed beyond the walls of the room, no one had lived on the streets of Derry and no one was hearing the same noises Richie did. He was alone, accompanied only by the guitar that was slipping from his hands. Before he knew it, the darkness of the room became the darkness of his closed eyes, and he was claimed by sleep.

He found himself in the middle of an endless void, running and running without having a clear reason as to why, but his heart was beating in primal terror and he was soaked in sweat. There was something behind him, something with jagged teeth that was faster than him, something that would eventually catch up. He risked a look behind him to find a wolf, its eyes glowing red in the darkness of the void and its saliva dripping down as its strong legs carried it throughout the dimension. Richie stumbled, and then he was running again. He heard laughter behind him, cruel cackles that were so familiar that he felt his body grow cold and taut, like a gallon of cold sewer water had been dumped on him. He didn't stop running, his legs started to go numb, and he felt like he was floating in the middle of the abyss, there wasn't a drop of blood in his veins but only terror itself. 

_ “Where are you going, fairy?”  _ a voice screamed at him, and it was loud enough to shake the entire void. It was a mix of many voices, scrambled together like a corrupt, molten version of different people, warped and barely human anymore. The  _ Street Fighter  _ theme song was playing somewhere in the distance, but no matter how much he ran, it never got louder or quieter. It was there constantly, playing in his head just to spite him, drive him mad. 

_ “Run, faggot!”  _ yelled the voice — or rather multiple voices — and there were eyes on him. Hundreds, thousands of judging eyes on the nonexistent walls of the void, staring at him. He wanted to say something to them, but his voice was gone. All he could do was heave and pant as he ran forward without a clear end in sight. And then he stumbled and fell into a puddle he hadn't seen before. He sat up, expecting to see the wolf approaching him, but it wasn't there.

Instead, Eddie stood in front of the puddle, only a couple feet away from Richie, who let out a sigh of relief. He reached for him, he tried to beg him to come with him so they could escape before the wolf came for them both, but he paused when he saw an expression he had never seen on Eddie before; an expression of pure, disgusted hatred. He was looking at him like he didn't know him, like he was disease ridden. Richie tried to reach for him again but his legs trembled with the struggle to keep him up, and he fell on his hands and knees. Exhausted, terrified and drenched in sweat, he tried to crawl towards where his friend was standing, but Eddie took a step back.

_ “You’re disgusting,” _ he said, and when he spoke his voice echoed in the void, as if they were in a great hall instead of pitch black nothingness. Richie paused when he heard that, his eyes widened with shock and confusion and  _ hurt,  _ and he tried to speak but no words left his mouth.  _ “You thought I would ever continue being friends with a disgusting piece of shit like you? You thought of me, didn't you? You wanted me to be in that picture. You thought of me like  _ that,  _ didn't you?”  _ His voice kept getting louder as his expression was soured with disgust with every word he spat. Richie tried to speak, he tried to explain to him that he would never act on his feelings and that he never wanted to feel that way, but Eddie’s voice was increasing in volume and drowning out his thoughts and he couldn't speak because there were invisible hands squeezing his throat and he couldn't breathe.

Suddenly, it wasn't just Eddie standing in front of him; Eddie, Bill, Stanley, Ben, Mike and Beverly were stood in a half circle around the puddle, their expressions warped and twisted in different ways but all looking at him like he was some disgusting bug crawling around, trying to survive despite their best efforts to kill him. They were all speaking in unison, but somehow Richie could hear their individual voices, echoing inside his head.

_ “You’re weak and a fucking loser, I wish I had never met you,”  _ Bill spat in disgust, his face scrunched up like the mere sight of him was enough to make him sick.

_ “You’re going to Hell,”  _ Stanley said,  _ “I can't let you taint me with your sins too.” _

_ “We could have been friends if you weren't a freak,”  _ Ben muttered sadly.

_ “I didn't deserve to be beaten and tortured,” Mike spat, “you do.” _

_ “You’re the reason I left,”  _ Beverly said.

And among them, Eddie’s voice was still the loudest, the most disgusted, the most spiteful, as he mocked him over and over again for ever imagining a life where he would even want to come near him. Richie tried to speak over them but their voices were far too loud, like TV static that increased in volume by a remote controller.

And then he realised that it really was TV static, when he found himself in his living room. The carpet was damp under his palms, his shirt was clinging to his body with sweat, and the sound of static wasn't just static. The room was only barely illuminated by the screen of the TV, and there was an armchair in front of it. Richie couldn't see anything, but the thing he’d thought was static turned out to be moans; loud and obscene and definitely coming from multiple men.

_ “Is this what you are, Richie?”  _ his father’s voice said, corrupt and evil and nothing like the real voice of his father. Richie looked around in panic, but there was no one in sight. The walls had gotten closer to him since he had looked last.  _ “Is this what you want to be known as? A disgusting little fairy? You want people to know us as the parents of the kid who takes it up the ass?”  _ And Richie was still on the floor, yelling and crying without a voice, choking on his own breath and feeling the burn of the carpet on his skin as the moans mixed with static continued, a loud, obnoxious circus music playing in the background. He couldn't breathe, he felt like there were hands on his body, holding him down and pressing on his chest and touching him  _ everywhere.  _

When he opened his eyes, soaked in sweat and disoriented, he was looking directly at a bright light. “You alright, kid?” someone asked, a man, his face concealed by the light directly beaming into Richie’s eyes. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

Richie opened his mouth only to gape like a fish, still confused as to what was going on, his heart almost beating hard and fast enough to leap out of his chest. He blinked once, twice, until his eyes got used to the world that wasn't the abyss. He could see the man more clearly now; he was thin and sported a pencil stache as well as a janitor’s uniform. He looked worried. He had a hand on Richie’s shoulder but he wasn't squeezing, it seemed like he had shaken him awake. 

Richie looked out of the window to see that the storm had cleared, leaving a blanket of pure, undisturbed white and gently floating snowflakes in its wake. He wondered how long he had been there for; it was impossible to tell what time it was with the clouds still covering the sun, but he reckoned it must have been a couple hours at least. He muttered out a thank you, still trembling as he got up to his feet, his knees wobbling like the legs of a newborn calf in order to keep him still. He weakly walked out of the music room, still shaken up, leaving the janitor behind. 

His body was still as taut as a bow when he walked out of the school building, but at least he could breathe properly now. The air smelled of snow, it was dry and biting his skin, but it was also beautiful. It had been a while since he had seen snow, he had no doubt the neighbourhood kids would jump at the chance to play in it sooner or later. As he straddled his bike he wondered if he could trick Eddie into a snowball fight, only to pause with the ghost of his dream echoing in his mind, the expression on his best friend’s face, his words. He felt nauseous. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he thought to himself,  _ Eddie wouldn't say that. None of them would say those things. _

He didn't know what they  _ would  _ say and he didn't know if he really wanted to hear it. Realising that he had forgotten his walkman at home, he let out a sigh and started pedaling out of the school’s driveway and towards home, the tires of his bike leaving a long gap in the fresh snow. 

—

“I’m so fucked,” Eddie muttered as he rubbed his hands together to retain some kind of warmth in them. “So fucked, you hear me? I’m going to go home and my mom is going to realise that I’ve been out when it’s minus-fuckall and she’s going to freak  _ out.” _

“Relax, dumbass,” Richie said as he rolled the huge ball of snow across the lawn. “She’s not going to realise jack  _ shit,  _ because we’re going to get your clothes dry before you go home. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Now come help me with this shit, it’s almost as heavy as your mom.”

“Easy for  _ you,  _ maybe,” Eddie huffed, but walked over to him anyway, “your mom isn't insane like mine.”

Richie chuckled as they continued to roll the ball of snow. “You haven't seen her when she ruins her manicure,” he replied. 

He hadn't told him about the dream, because of course he hadn't. He could barely think about it without feeling so claustrophobic that it made him want to crawl into a ball on the ground and just breathe to ease his nausea. But whenever he looked at Eddie now, he was reminded of the gut-wrenching words he had uttered in his dream, the things he had spat out with nothing but sheer disgust in his tone. Although he had pushed it aside with the thought that Eddie would never say something akin to those words, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that perhaps that wasn't the case at all. They had never really discussed issues like that, but it would be a leap of faith he wasn't willing to take. In the meantime, he settled for keeping his physical contact with Eddie — and the rest of his friends — to a minimum and only allowing it when he was sure no one could see them. Perhaps it was a little strange, how he used to leap at the chance to bother Eddie with unwanted physical contact and refused to even hold eye-contact for more than a couple seconds now, and he had no doubt Eddie had figured out that something was wrong, but he had decided to keep it that way. At least until he untangled himself out of his own thoughts and feelings, he needed to keep everything simple. His mother had always told him that he wasn't a man of complicated problems.

“What the dick are we doing?” Eddie whined, letting go of the ball when they neared the centre of the yard. “This is so fucking stupid, Rich. What are we, five?”

“Well, I have to keep your simple brain entertained somehow,” Richie replied as he stretched. He could feel the heat radiating off of Eddie’s glare without looking at him. “Besides, snow is nice. You get to actually feel alive instead of committing to death like summer.”

“It wasn't  _ that  _ hot.”

“Eds, I could see your pit sweat from a mile away,” Richie said, dropping on the snow covered stairs of the backyard.

“Don’t confuse your own gross body with mine,” Eddie said before sitting down next to him, flushed and tired from the cold. He was too small, bundled up in layers of clothing once again, still shivering. A part of Richie wanted to pull him closer to keep him warm, but he simply shoved his hands into his coat pockets to keep them still. 

It was quiet between the two of them for a while; the type of comfortable silence Richie had grown accustomed to. “Do Jews have Heaven and Hell?” he asked then, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. Out of his peripherals he could see Eddie give him a look.

“How the fuck should I know? Ask Stan or something.”

“So you remember fuckall from the lectures he keeps giving us?” Richie asked. “He must have mentioned it as  _ some  _ point.”

“You’re the one who went to his bar mitzvah,” Eddie pointed out. 

Richie rubbed his face. “Don't remind me, it was a shitshow.” They were quiet again for a moment, Eddie was staring at Richie until he turned his head. He had a nice nose that turned upwards at the tip, his jaw was begging to get just a little sharper. Beverly had been right, Richie mused faintly, Eddie would be quite a handsome man when he grew up. 

Feeling weird, he grabbed a handful of ice as discreetly as possible when Eddie was distracted, and promptly yanked the collar of his coat to dump it inside. Letting out a shriek, Eddie tried to shove him off but Richie just started cackling as he began shoveling as much snow as possible into the back of his friend’s coat. Eddie squirmed in his grasp before finally tearing himself free of Richie’s clutches and stood there for a moment in dumbstruck silence. When he spoke, it was only to mutter, “You piece of shit,” before he tackled Richie and shoved his face in the snow, and then promptly got pushed off with the start of a snowball fight that wasn't particularly fair on both sides. 

—

The corridors of the school was now cramped and deafeningly loud; people trying to go to their classes, hanging around and talking to their friends, locker doors being slammed shut left and right. Richie didn't have anyone with him then; the rest of his friends had to be in different parts of the building in order to get to their classes, and it was suffocating to walk through the sea of people he couldn't even remember the faces of. Growing an inch or so had helped him feel not so towered-over by his peers, but he still felt awfully claustrophobic in the tight space, faintly longing for the calm and quiet of the school building when the storm had struck. 

He didn't think he had much time before history class, so he quickened his steps slightly and tugged on the strap of his backpack to keep it still on his shoulder. He then bumped into someone, murmured an apology, and kept walking. There was suddenly a hand on his wrist, holding him back, and when he turned his head he was once again looking into the blue eyes of Connor, just as wide and surprised as they had been at the arcade. Richie felt dread rising up his throat like bile, he tried to tug his hand free of Connor’s grip but it was surprisingly strong. 

“Let me go,” he said between his teeth, ducking his head so that he wouldn't be forced to look at him in the eye. 

“No,” Connor replied, taking a step closer to him. “Listen, man, I need to talk to you. Please?”

Someone bumped shoved Connor slightly, telling him to ge walking, and he lost his grip on Richie’s wrist. Taking his chance, Richie started walking quickly through the corridor in an effort to lose him, but when he turned around Connor was still maneuvering through the crowd in order to catch up to him. Richie quickened his steps again, ignoring Connor calling his name to draw his attention, until he was sprinting out out of the corridor. He didn't know where he was going, he had passed his classroom and was running down the stairs leading to the yard. 

“Richie! Come on, man!” Connor called behind him. Richie threw the doors open and ran out into the cold afternoon without his coat on. His legs felt taut, and when he finally stopped to take a breather, Connor caught up to him in only a matter of seconds. 

“Leave me… the fuck  _ alone,”  _ he wheezed, blinking to get rid of the nausea that had struck. He needed to get some exercise, this was ridiculous. 

“Please, Richie,” Connor pleaded, also out of breath, but at least he wasn't leaning on his knees. “I just want to talk.”

Richie strained up and looked him up and down, he had gotten even more handsome during the past few months. The thought almost made him sick. “Didn't think you’d remember my name,” he said, making a point to be as cold as possible, but the tips of his ears felt warm and weird. Connor pulled a grimace.

“Of course I remember your name,” he said, and he had the audacity to sound  _ hurt.  _ He let out a sigh and ran his hand through his blonde curls. “I just want to talk,” he said again, holding his hands open as to not make Richie feel threatened, although it didn't work particularly well. “That’s it. If you don't want to see me again after that, fine, but please just let me explain myself. Apologise.”

Richie just stared at him for a moment, watched the way his long lashes fluttered over his cheekbones as he blinked, looked at the pleasant curve of his cupid’s bow, and promptly ripped his gaze away from them. “Fine,” he said, “talk.”

Connor shook his head. “Not here.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Too out in the open.”

Richie laughed in disbelief. “Really, man? After all  _ that  _ you’re ashamed to talk to me in public? You know what, nevermind.”

“No, that’s not it!” Connor cried as Richie was beginning to turn away. “I’m not ashamed of talking to you, I’m just…” he trailed off, frowning at his shoes. “I feel like you’ll start running again as soon as I say something. I just want to… I don't know, sit down? Have a proper chat?”

And Richie knew that he shouldn't believe anything that came out of Connor’s mouth, not after what he had done before, not after betraying his trust so easily just to get himself off the hook. But he looked like a kicked puppy, he looked lost and confused, and Richie felt like he was seeing the boy he had met for the first time on the day he’d fought with Bill. Connor had been a reassurance then, a new chance at a friendship after many years of being an outcast. So he sighed and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said, trying not to stare when Connor’s face lit up with surprised delight. 

“Cool, I— thanks, man.” He cleared his throat, looking away. “So, under the benches at the football field?” Richie nodded wordlessly and followed him as Connor started walking in the direction of the field.

He didn't trust Connor, of course he didn't, a part of him still told him that Belch and his gang would show up as soon as he was cornered under the benches and beat him to a pulp, maybe steal his clothes so he had to walk around the school in the snow without anything to cover him up, but another part of him had, ironically enough, had missed Connor. He had missed his lingering gazes, his bright smiles, his friendship. That part of him wanted to trust Connor so badly that it was hard to not feel warm when he looked at him.

The field was abandoned as he had expected, the field far too snowy for the time being to get any sort of practise done. Connor looked around to see if anyone was near, then ducked his head and led them to the underside of the benches where it wasn't touched by snow. The ground was cold and hard as they sat down side by side, but Richie only grimaced slightly as he tried to get comfortable. He drew his knees close to his chest and waited.

Connor pulled out a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and offered one to Richie, who had never smoked in his life before but felt awkward refusing, so took it. After Connor put on between his own lips and lit it up, then he reached forward with the lighter to light Richie’s. “Breathe it in,” he muttered around his cigarette as the soft burning sound of the paper filled the air between them. Richie took a drag, his eyes glued to Connor’s with a funny feeling in his stomach, and started coughing immediately. Connor smiled as he moved away.

“So, what were you going to say?” Richie said, his voice rough and his face pulled into a grimace. Thinking he would get used to it, he took another drag and rubbed his chest as his lungs burned. 

Connor took a drag as well, pursed his pouty lips to blow the smoke out, and sighed. “I wanted to apologise,” he said finally, turning to Richie and wrapping an arm around his knees. “What I did was shitty, and I’m sorry.”

Richie took a moment to reply, searching for words. He quietly inhaled the smoke, frowning, and muttered, “Right.” The air around them was tense and awkward, so he added, “Why did you do it?”

Connor smiled sadly. “I was scared,” was his answer. “When I saw Henry… God, I don't know. I thought he’d misunderstand and tell my dad. He’d beat me with his belt, Richie, I was terrified.”

Richie hummed. He couldn't even be mad, he knew what being terrified for his life was like. 

“I was surprised when I saw you,” Connor said then. “At the arcade, I mean.”

“I live here,” Richie replied simply, “unlike you.”

“Are you always so hard to talk to?” Connor asked, but he was smiling. It was a distracting sight, so Richie looked away, feeling flushed and anxious. 

“I have a special discount for assholes,” he replied, blowing smoke out into the air, somewhat used to the burn now. He coughed again. “Why are you here, anyway? Weren't you just visiting for the summer?” he asked, trying to hide his curiosity behind a thin veil of indifferent small-talk. He wondered if Connor could see through it.

He looked disgruntled before replying, his small mouth tight around the edges, his teeth gnawing on his plush bottom lip. Richie couldn't take his eyes away, somehow. “I used to live with my mom, my parents divorced when I was, like, three,” Connor started, letting out a sigh. “Henry is my dad’s brother’s son, and I sometimes come to visit my dad during the summer. Not that often, though, my mom doesn't really like him.” He took another drag, this one seemed to be to ground himself. The burning edge was getting closer to the filter. He tapped off the ash. “After my dad heard what happened to my uncle, he wanted me to come live with him for a while. You know, to help out with everything, take care of the family, etcetera. I think he just had some kind of bullshit epiphany about how fathers should be close to their sons, though.”

Richie was quiet again for a moment, but the silence between them wasn't as thick and tense as before. “Did your mom have a problem with that?” he asked, not even bothering to conceal his curiosity now. Connor must have noticed, because his smile wasn't as sad, as bitter as before. 

“Oh, she did,” he said, chuckling, “but it’s not like she had much of a say in it. My family is… well, they’re kind of closed-minded.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from your piece of shit cousin with the mullet. Wouldn't exactly call him a human rights activist,” Richie joked, and Connor actually laughed. It was a good feeling, it was nice to see his smile, to know that he was laughing at  _ his  _ jokes. The thought made him tense up, he shuffled in his spot for a moment.

“Yeah, well, you wouldn't be wrong,” Connor agreed, seemingly ignorant to the weird churning of Richie’s stomach. “My family didn't think it was right for a boy to live with his mother, without a dad. They thought… well, they thought I’d end up becoming a fairy. So, they kind of used this as a way to make me come live with my dad.”

“Ah,” Richie muttered, nodding, “so do you know how long you’re going to be here?”

Connor shrugged. “Might be a couple weeks, or a couple months, or a couple years, I don't know. My family’s not exactly predictable.” He turned to Richie with a smile. “At least I’ve got a friend here.”

Richie tensed up, squared his shoulders, and frowned. “We’re not friends,” he said simply. “You stabbed me in the back as soon as you thought your ass was on fire. I don't trust you. I don't care if your cousin is in jail now, you could still do that again. You didn't even want to be seen with me so you dragged me all the way here, what the fuck do you expect me to think, Bowers?”

Connor looked dumbfounded, hurt, but he pressed his lips together and turned his head. Richie hated the feeling of guilt he felt deep in the pit of his stomach. “That’s not my name,” Connor said then, “Bowers, I mean. I never wanted to be associated with my dad’s side of the family.” He rubbed his face tiredly. “I’m sorry, Richie, you have all the right in the world to not trust me.” Richie’s eyes widened in shock, but he kept his mouth closed. “I don't deserve your trust, not right now. But I’m not lying about wanting to become friends again,” Connor continued, and his eyes were clear and devoid of lies, his expression was determined.

Richie stared at him, at his bright blue eyes and soft blonde curls, at his pouty lips, his furrowed brows, and felt anxious and uneasy again. Connor’s lashes were long and dark, they reminded him of Eddie’s. “Fine,” he sighed finally, exhausted, and he both hated and loved the expression of relief Connor pulled on. “I have one condition, though; we meet at public places. I don't give a shit if you don't want people to think we know each other, if we’re going to be friends then you better get used to being associated with the loser.”

Connor grinned. “I ran through the halls screaming your name, didn't I?” he asked, and Richie shrugged, an unwanted smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Connor’s expression softened then. “You’re not a loser, Richie,” he said softly. Richie felt himself blush, the tips of his ears get warm, his insides get tangled up. He wanted to trust Connor so desperately, he wanted to hang out with him and forget about his tension with Eddie, about how his brain was so jumbled together that he couldn't think straight without running short of breath. Connor had been a beam of light back then, a new opportunity, someone who had made him feel happiness when he thought he had lost his friends. He wanted that again.

He smiled, put out the cigarette on the ground, and got to his feet. “See you later, man.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

“Have you got any plans for college yet?”

Richie paused stirring his milkshake and scrunched his nose in distaste. “Stan, my guy, I don't even know what the fuck I’m going to do after freshman year. I might just drop out and become a goat herder in the mountains, who the fuck knows? Not me!”

Stanley gave him a deadpan look before he sighed. “I’m probably going to major in accounting or something,” he mused, not sounding especially interested but more like it was his sealed fate and he didn't particularly care to change it. Richie made a face again.

“Why in Satan’s fresh asshole would you want to study _ accounting?” _ he asked. “There’s a reason why people call us losers, you know, and you’re _ really _ not helping our case if your dream job is being an _ accountant.” _

“Yeah, well, I’m good with numbers,” Stanley replied before he shot a disapproving look at Richie’s mixed concoction of a milkshake. “You do realise it’s the middle of winter, right? Do you really want to drink that?”

“My dear Stanley Urine, winter might be now but milkshake is forever,” Richie replied, proving his point by sucking on the straw so hard that he had to swallow a mouthful of the milkshake that was essentially just huge chunks of overly sugary ice dumped into a glass of strawberry milk. He powered through the brain-freeze that hit him suddenly, the urge to groan in pain far too strong, but he kept looking at Stanley with a determined expression. Stanley sighed again.

“So you really don't have any dreams?” he asked after a moment. “Funny, I thought you’d want to be the president or something. Wouldn't be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”

“Who wants to be some old dick sitting in a chair every day, signing shit? I would be asking to get shot at that point, dear ol’ JFK had it right.” He paused for a moment, disregarding Stanley’s grimace at his words, and asked, “Wait, how do you know I don't have a dream? I just said that I don't know what I want to do after high school.”

Stanley chuckled. “What is it then, if it’s not college? Are you planning on becoming a janitor or something?” He then frowned, pursing his lips. “Besides, it’s not like your parents would agree with that.”

Richie didn't respond to that for a moment, because he knew that Stanley was right. Although he dreaded to think about it, he would most likely be sharing the same fate as Stanley; studying accounting or law or medicine just because his parents wouldn't find anything else suitable. They weren't bad people, they did their best for him and wanted him to be happy, but they had some conditions on his happiness after all. He shrugged as if the thought didn't bother him. “Who cares, right?” he said, trying to sound confident yet feeling anything but. “I mean, once I’m eighteen they legally won't be allowed to dictate my life. If I really wanted to go to college, I could do it by myself. How expensive is college anyway?”

Stanley thought for a moment. “I think… around fifteen or twenty thousand per year?”

Richie gaped at him, his eyes widened in shock. “You’re telling me I have to pay more than the fucking Civil War cost just so I can read some _ books? _Dude, fuck that.”

“I’m pretty sure the Civil War cost a little more than that,” Stanley replied, scowling. “But what are your ‘dreams’ anyway? I’m sure the price varies.”

Richie pressed his lips together and kept quiet for a moment, hesitant. “Well,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table, “I mean, it would be nice if I could… I don't know, do something _ fun?” _

“Fun?” Stanley repeated, confused. “What do you mean by fun? Any job can be fun if you like it enough.”

“Yeah, I don't think so, Stan. There’s no fucking way being an accountant is fun for anyone in the entire world.” He once again disregarded his friend’s disapproving look. “And I don't know, man, just something fun. Or maybe something that could entertain people. Like being on SNL or something!” he said excitedly. “That shit’s fucking hilarious, I’d like to be like those guys.”

Stanley’s frown deepened. “My dad doesn't let me watch SNL, he thinks it’ll be a bad influence.”

Richie was about to reply with either sheer horror or a teasing remark about Judaism when his eyes caught sight of a head full of curly blonde hair and his words died on his tongue. Connor was facing a man; tall and well-built, with short blonde hair that was much straighter than Connor’s and a serious expression on his face. Richie had never met him before but the resemblance between the father and the son was uncanny. They were sat a bit farther from them at a booth and Connor didn't look particularly happy to be at the diner; with his mouth pulled into the smallest of frowns and his posture tense, as if simply sitting in front of his father was a discomfort. Then he turned his head in boredom and locked eyes with Richie.

Richie didn't know how to react at first. His initial instinct was to wave at him — What had he become? Was he a friend? Simply an acquaintance who made him feel weirdly anxious? — but he curled his fingers into a fist as to stop that from happening. He didn't know how Connor would react next to his father, he couldn't be sure he wouldn't go back on his word and once again stab Richie in the back after promising him to do better. He held the eye contact for a moment longer until, to his surprise, Connor gave him a small smile and waved first. Richie shot a glance at his father, who was busy scowling at the menu, before he returned the wave with a small smile of his own. They didn't exchange anything else, but the brief interaction gave Richie some hope that perhaps in the future, they could go back to what they once were.

“Who’s that?” Stanley asked, confused. “He looks familiar.”

“Just someone from school,” Richie replied. 

—

Richie waited in front of Eddie’s house, tapping his foot along to the beat of a song that was stuck in his head. The snow had melted a while ago, only squished, dirty chunks of it remained on the muddy streets. The sky wasn't as grey as it had been for the past couple of weeks but it wasn't as sunny as what was ideal. He had switched his thick winter coat for his windbreaker again, with the weather becoming more rainy than snowy. The tapping of his foot made little splashes of water on the wet concrete. 

He raised his head when he saw the front door of the Kaspbrak’s house open and shut quickly, a very distressed looking Eddie sprinting out with his backpack barely hanging onto his shoulders. He was drowning in an old, bright pink sweater, cursing under his breath as he jogged up to Richie and said a very brief hello. He was about to straddle his bike when he spotted the grin on Richie’s face and frowned. “The fuck you laughing at, asshole?” he asked angrily, and Richie thought he would choke on his own laughter.

“You look fucking adorable,” he replied, finally letting out the cackle he had been trying to hold in. Eddie looked awfully unimpressed and shoved his hand away when Richie tried to pinch his cheek. “Wow, Eds, never thought you’d look so cute in pink. Boys’ section too big for you?”

“Fucking hilarious, Rich,” Eddie grumbled, his cheeks already carrying a pink of their own. “It’s my cousin’s, okay? My aunt sent a bunch of her old clothes for some fucking reason and I ran out of sweaters my mom thinks are thick enough, so I’m stuck with this.” He scowled at the sweater like it was the source of all human misery.

“So it _ is _a girl’s sweater, oh my God!” Richie laughed. “You know, I didn't think you could get prettier but you keep proving me wrong.” This was just teasing, it wasn't anything he needed to be cautious about. It was fine. He had been teasing Eddie like that for years, and no one batted an eye thus far. It was fine. 

“I’m sorry, I can't see a fucking vagina on this sweater,” Eddie said in irritation.

“Believe me, you won't _ ever _ see one _ anywhere _if you keep wearing the shit your aunt sends you,” Richie said, straddling his own bike as Eddie glared at him. “It’s huge, though, does your entire family consist of Jabba The Hutt’s?”

“If you don't shut up right fucking now I’m going to shove my entire fist in your mouth.”

They gathered their friends like they did every single day; first meeting up with Bill, Ben and Mike, and then picking up Stanley on their way to school. Everything went as normal, with the group teasing each other — mostly picking on Eddie, Stanley and Ben — and locking their bikes once they reached the gates of the school building. Richie had already moved past Eddie’s sweater — it wasn't that he actually cared about the colour, Eddie had simply looked adorable when he was flushed pink with embarrassment, matching the top he was swimming in — and was complaining about having math class first thing in the morning as they parted with the rest of their friends once again. Eddie was either listening or completely ignoring Richie, sometimes throwing in a sarcastic comment but otherwise mostly staying silent. He looked tired. It was a normal morning. 

Richie turned his head and saw a couple of boys staring and snickering at them. He frowned in confusion and a little bit of exhaustion; he was tired of people calling him ‘Four-Eyes’ and thinking that was clever, and he had to admit that he himself wasn't particularly creative with his nicknames — except for Spaghetti Head, he was still proud of how much it annoyed Eddie — but it didn't hurt to not use a nickname that had existed for the past millennia to insult someone if you wanted to look the least bit clever.

To his surprise, no one called him ‘Four-Eyes,’ actually no one even called him anything. The one at the very front — a blonde kid with greasy, long hair and a skinny frame — smirked, put his hand to the side of his mouth and yelled, “Nice sweater, fag!” Richie paused to glance at his sweater to see what exactly made it gay, only to realise they were talking about Eddie, who looked awfully embarrassed and angry, but didn't say anything back. 

Richie had gotten used to the comments himself, it seemed to be a daily occurence that made anger raise in his throat like bile, but Eddie hadn't. He had never liked drawing unwanted attention on himself, he was much more timid around people he didn't know than Richie was, and he looked awfully uncomfortable. 

And, clearly, he was much more rational than Richie as well, because Richie didn't even hesitate to shout, “Shut the fuck up!” at the group of four. 

The one at the front paused for a moment in his surprise, just like Eddie next to him, then smirked. “Aw, is the fairy protecting his little boyfriend?”

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Richie said, his anger growing in his chest once again, reminiscent of the time at the arcade with Connor, the time Belch and his gang had cornered him, every comment made by his father, and took a step closer to the boys. The blonde one clearly hadn't been expecting it because his smirk fell slightly before it was reignited. 

“A fairy,” he repeated. “Who fucks who, huh? Does that little one fuck you in the ass, Four-Eyes? Can you even feel anything with his shrimp dick?”

There was a small crowd forming in the cramped corridor, students stirring away from walking to their classrooms to see what the commotion was about so early in the morning. Eddie seemed even more uncomfortable than before, hanging back slightly and muttering curse after curse under his breath. Richie hated that vaguely terrified, bothered look on his face, it made him smaller somehow while taking away all of his cuteness. 

“Go fucking blow your dad, asshole,” he spat at the kid, “if you even have one. Or did he leave you too?”

That seemed to get to the kid; his smirk fell completely and his jaw tightened as if he was about to start snarling. Richie felt Eddie’s glare, conveying something along the lines of _ what the actual fuck are you doing, Tozier? _ But frankly, Richie was tired and they had insulted Eddie first and he was _ not _about to let some redneck kid with daddy issues and a messed up superiority complex make fun of him and his best friend. And even then, it was a selfish thing to do, but he was furious and he hadn't felt such a strong emotion in a while and the discomfort radiating from Eddie seemed to fuel the fire growing in his chest. 

“You’re fucking dead,” the kid said, squaring up his shoulders. Richie copied him. He was much more similar to him size-wise than Belch and his gang, Richie probably even had just a little under an inch over him after his small growth spurt, and they were both fairly skinny. If the kid threw the first punch, he would be ready for it.

“Richie, what the _ fuck?” _Eddie said next to him, panicked. “Let’s just fucking go, okay? This could get us in some deep shit, just leave it.”

The kid’s eyes traveled to Eddie and he smirked again. “Listen to your faggot boyfriend, _ Richie,” _he said, mocking, “when I rip your dick off there won't be anything to fuck him with.”

Richie never thought he would be the first one to throw a punch in a fight, he never even really thought about getting into fights. Growing up, he had always been fairly skinny and small compared to the other kids and had been picked on for it, so avoiding a fight rather than starting one had always been one of his main goals in life. But then, with his rage burning red and bright in his chest and the people crowding them watching with anticipation and the wild glimmer in the kid’s eyes and Eddie uncomfortably watching everything, he didn't even realise he was raising his fist before his knuckles made impact with the kid’s face. Pain shot through his entire hand and the kid stumbled backwards. Suddenly the crowd was cheering, amused by this sudden show of violence, and it only increased in volume when the kid threw himself forward to land a punch on Richie’s jaw. 

It was a blur of limbs and pain for a moment, Richie managed to land another couple of hits and they were suddenly on the ground, wrestling like animals. The kid kneed him in the stomach, making his body curl inwards before Richie collected himself hastily and got on top of him, straddling his stomach. He raised his fist, breathing hard and fast, and was about to bring it down when someone grabbed him by the arm and pulled him off the kid. He tried to struggle for a moment before he realised that it was the history teacher trying to break up the fight, with the football coach holding back the other kid. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the coach yelled at the students grouped around the fight. “Go back to your classes! Now!”

Richie saw a flash of bright pink before the teacher dragged him into another corridor and towards the principal’s office. 

He had been to the office a couple of times before, for nothing as particularly significant as the fight, but enough to vaguely remember the layout. He focused on the fake plant with the large, bright green leaves at the corner as the principal scolded him and the other kid — whose name was Bo, as he had learned when he was dragged into the office as well. He didn't know how much time passed while he was there, but his knuckles were red and raw and the pain he felt in different parts of his body seemed to increase with each minute. Eventually the principal got tired of his own scolding, dropped to his seat, out of breath, and told them that their parents had to come pick them up. He didn't say why, but Richie had a clear idea, and it bothered him far less than he’d thought it would. 

He then told Bo to go and sit outside to wait for his parents while he had a talk with Richie. Expecting the worst, Richie was almost immediately about to disassociate when the door was shut, too tired to handle more nagging, but the principal just sighed and looked at him. 

“Richard Tozier,” he said slowly, and his full name being spoken made everything all the more real. He didn't like it, it didn't sound like the man was talking to him. “Now, I understand that boys your age need to be rowdy sometimes. You know, fight over girls, get fired up every now and then, blow off steam?” Richie didn't make a comment, but he felt like laughing. The principal, unbeknownst to his bitter and ironic joy, joined his hands on the desk and looked at him seriously. “But you’re a good student, Richard, why would you fight with someone like _ him? _He clearly hasn’t got anything going for him, don't bring yourself down to his level.” Richie kept quiet, it was far too ridiculous. He wondered if Eddie was alright. “Was this about some girl?” the principal asked as if he had read his mind, looking far too interested in the answer than a principal should be, when it came to his pupils. 

“He insulted my friend,” Richie replied simply. He realised that, although he was probably going to get suspended, he couldn't feel guilty about it. He was still angry, still wanted to go out there and beat Bo into a pulp until he was an apologising mess.

The principal nodded like he understood, but Richie doubted he did. He felt like no one could understand why he had done it, including himself. He didn't understand why he was so angry. He told himself that it was because they had insulted him and Eddie, but it didn't feel like that was all there was to it. It was an uncomfortable thought. “Well,” the principal said, “protecting your friends is a noble thing to do, but I can't just let this slip. Did your friend get involved too?”

“No,” Richie replied immediately, shaking his head. “No, sir. He tried to stop me but I didn't listen. It’s on me.”

And then he was sent out to wait for his parents. He could see Bo give him dirty looks out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't react to it, fearing that the adrenaline still faintly buzzing in his body would make him start another round. He already knew that the next time he saw Eddie, he would be scolded and nagged at until his friend’s face was flushed from how fast he was talking. Somehow the thought was much more pleasant than getting scolded by his mother. 

Bo’s mother arrived first. Looking tired and disheveled, she was a stark contrast to Richie’s mother, who always looked pristine and made-up. This woman had grey hairs sticking out of her messy ponytail, not one drop of makeup on her aging face, and fairly old clothes hanging from her thin frame, and that was when Richie actually felt slightly guilty. Not because he had punched Bo in the face, but because his mother probably had to leave work early to pick her son up. He tried to stifle the guilt by telling himself that Bo had been the one who started everything, and that it wasn't really his fault, but the bone-deep exhaustion in her eyes made him glare at his worn shoes. 

It wasn't long after that when his own parents arrived. His mother was furious, as he had expected her to be, but his father didn't seem particularly bothered. He was putting on a face for her, of course, but Richie couldn't tell if he was actually mad at him. 

“You’re in so much trouble,” his mother said as soon as she marched up to him, pointing her index finger to his chest. “You do realise this will be on your record, right? What if you apply for a school and don't get accepted because of this? Do you ever think before you act, Richard? I’m so disappointed in you.” Richie wondered what it was with adults and dropping the legal name when the situation was serious. He couldn't recall a single time when Eddie did that no matter how furious he was. 

His mother and father went into the principal’s office and closed the door behind them, and Richie was left to his own devices once again. He sighed and closed his eyes, his face was throbbing with pain every time he moved even a single muscle. He wondered if Eddie was sitting in math class, chewing on his nails anxiously. The thought made him smile a bit.

It seemed like a whole hour before his parents made their way out of the room, his mother’s face had gone red with fury. He expected them to wordlessly lead him to the car and drive home in either passive-aggressive silence or with constant nagging, but his father just told his mother to wait for them in the car and that he wanted to talk to him first. His mother huffed in annoyance but left nonetheless, the clicking of her heels got fainter and fainter before completely vanishing. When his father turned to him Richie was expecting yet another scolding, but it never came. He was smiling a little.

“I knew you weren't a wimp,” he said gleefully, and Richie was confused. “The principal told us what happened, and I’ve got to say, I’m so proud of you sticking up for your friend like that, Rich. I mean, you punched that kid real good, didn't know you were so strong, flutter bum.” He let out a sigh, and it sounded relieved. “Well, granted, I _ do _ need to ground you to keep Mrs Tozier happy, _ but,” _he bent forward like he was telling a secret, “I’m super proud of you. You really showed that kid, huh? Didn't take it lying down. Like a real man.” He clapped Richie on the shoulder in joy. “Come on, let’s not get your mother any angrier than she is, you know how she gets when—”

“Excuse me?” They both turned around to look at the source of the voice, and it was very strange how much Richie relaxed upon spotting Mrs Andrews standing in the middle of the corridor with a couple of books in her arms, looking extremely bemused.

“Hello,” his father immediately said, straightening himself up. “Wentworth Tozier, how do you do?” He reached out a hand for her to shake. 

“Valerie Andrews,” she replied, still looking slightly confused but taking his hand nonetheless, “I’m your son’s music teacher.” She then frowned slightly, inclining her head. “I’m sorry, but may I ask what’s happening here?”

“Oh,” his father said, stuffing his hands into his slack pockets. “Well, just a little bit of a fight between boys, nothing important. You know, put a bunch of boys into a cramped building and see how well that will go. I suppose that was the plot of _ Lord of the Flies, _wasn't it?”

“I suppose it was, yes,” she said before blinking in surprise. “Wait, I’m sorry but did you say _ fight? _ Richie got in a _ fight _with another kid?” she turned to Richie, clearly disapproving. Somehow her disappointed scowl was much more effective than his mother’s, so he ducked his head in shame. 

“Wow, even the teachers call him that? I’ve never heard a teacher not call him by his proper name,” his father commented, clearly unaware of the tension between the two of them.

She turned to his father again. “Well, Richie expressed earlier in the year that he felt more comfortable being referred to as that, and I would like to respect his wishes. Anywho,” she threw another glance at Richie still sitting in the chair, “what do you mean by fight? Are you sure that’s what it was? Because Richie is one of the most brilliant students I’ve ever seen and, frankly, he doesn't seem like the type of person to get into a fistfight with one of his peers.” Richie tried to stifle his smile. 

“My son is still a boy,” his father replied, and he sounded a little agitated now. “Boys get in fights, it’s biology. Like I said, their chemistry doesn't work well with each other, I suppose. Good thing we have women in the world to keep the men at bay.”

“Right,” she said, but her smile was tight, uncomfortable. “Well, would you let me have a little chat with Richie? It won't take long, I just need to talk to him about something.”

He smiled; one of those polite smiles with his lips pressed together and his brows raised. “Knock yourself out,” he said, taking a couple steps backwards. “Don’t be late, flutter bum. Mom and I will be waiting in the car.” And then a couple of seconds later, he was gone. 

Richie turned to her. “I can expla—”

“A fight!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out in frustration. “A _ fight, _Richie! What were you thinking?”

“To be fair,” he said, raising a finger, “I wasn't.”

She tried to look mad but the corners of her mouth were twitching upwards. That was one of the good things about Mrs Andrews; she genuinely found Richie entertaining no matter how obnoxious he was being. She let out a sigh and covered her eyes with a delicate hand. When she dropped it her brows were knitted again. _ “Please _tell me that it was self-defense, or I might just drape you over my knee and beat you myself.”

Richie looked away and pouted. She raised a brow at him. “I threw the first punch,” he admitted quietly.

“Richie, you—!”

“But,” he quickly added, “he started it!”

She seemed like she was about to say something when she stopped herself. Fixing her posture and putting on a neutral expression, she asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“I don't know if I should tell you,” he said, squinting, “you might tell my dad.”

She huffed but didn't seem particularly annoyed. If anything, she looked amused. “I promise I won't tell anyone anything,” she said, then thought for a moment and added, “as long as it’s not something illegal.”

“That depends on where you live, doesn't it?” Richie mused. “This kid, Bo Something, just started picking on my friend for wearing a pink sweater. My friend was getting really uncomfortable and it was starting to get annoying, so I told him and his stupid ass friend to shut up.” He saw the disapproving look on her face. “Sorry. Anyway, he started calling us… well, ‘fag’ and ‘fairy’ and stuff like that, and I was so fu— fricking mad that I just punched him really hard in the face.” He smiled. “Wish I could say I regret it, but it felt _ really _good.”

He could see that for a moment, she tried to keep collected, tried to keep her teacher position intact, but she broke into laughter a second or two later, taking a seat next to Richie in one of the uncomfortable chairs. “Oh, how I would like to nag at you for getting into a fight, but I simply cannot blame you.” She paused for a moment. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, a teacher can't encourage one of her pupils to get in a fight.” 

Richie grinned and made a zipping up motion in front of his mouth. Mrs Andrews chuckled again.

She then leaned in, her red lips pulled into an almost devilish smile that looked off on her angelic face. “You know,” she said quietly, “I remember punching a man in the face once for yelling obscenities at my friend I mentioned.” The surprised look on Richie’s face made her double in laughter. When Richie thought about it, it wasn't all that hard to imagine her punching a man in the face for hurting someone she loved. It was a rather entertaining thought, really. “Oh, you should have seen her face! She was _ shocked. _I suppose no one had defended her like that before.” She smiled sadly.

Richie was quiet for a moment, practising a beat on his thigh. “So, you’re not mad at me?” he asked, and her smile once again turned playful.

“If anyone asks, I am,” she replied with a wink, then got to her feet. “Off you go, then. Shouldn't make your parents wait for you for long. Oh and,” Richie turned to look at her right as he was about to leave. Her expression was soft once again, “I don't know how this might sound, and I suppose I shouldn't be intervening at all, but don't listen to what your father says, Richie. You’re a good kid, don't give up your emotions just to be a stereotypical ‘boy,’ will you? I didn't mention it in front of him, but I’m telling you. The world would truly lose something valuable if you changed to fit into a box.”

Richie didn't understand why, but her words made something squeeze painfully in his chest. Her words were strange, she herself was strange and didn't fit in with the people around them, but she was also like a breath of fresh air. He had learned more from her in the past couple of months than he had in his fifteen years of life, and he supposed she was almost like a mother figure at that point, as young as she was. He couldn't remember greater joy than seeing a proud smile bloom on her face like flowers in spring, and it was odd, but it made him clench his fists to keep his emotions intact. He nodded wordlessly and walked out of the corridor, then the school building, and towards the car waiting for him at the driveway.

His mother wouldn't look at him when he got in, and his father seemed to be in a different world as he pulled out and started driving away from the school and in the direction of their house. It was quiet in the car, almost enough to drown the joy he had felt by Mrs Andrews’ words, but not quite. 

“You’re suspended for a week,” his mother said emotionlessly. “You should be glad, they would have given you two if this wasn't your first offense. Also, you’re grounded. No contacting your friends while you’re on suspension.” Her words seemed final, and Richie didn't feel the need to argue. He just worried about Eddie, more than anything.


	8. Chapter 8

Being stuck indoors without anything to do was absolutely unbearable, and Richie got bored the second day he was allowed to wake up far later than usual. It was an odd thing; how one thrived at the prospect of being free of their responsibilities but got immensely bored and unmotivated once the choice of having nothing to do was taken away from them. In this case he wasn't allowed to go to school, which he would have considered a blessing if he had any saying on it, but it was simply _ boring _to stare out the window and try to focus on a comic book he had read before.

He could watch TV, but the thought of commercials and dull day-time programs soured his mood. His mother would probably nag at him if he as much as went downstairs, he was supposed to be grounded after all. He wondered if he could sneak out of the window to go somewhere, but doing anything by himself without his friends surrounding him seemed even lonelier than simply being stuck in his room. 

So he turned on some music as loud as possible without angering his mother, and laid on his bed, thinking. He had been trying not to think for so long, when his thoughts often made him anxious and panicked, but with what had happened at school he couldn't help but dwell on it, at least a little. He could still recall the fury he had felt upon hearing the things shouted at him and Eddie, how defensive he had gotten. But he had done it for Eddie, hadn't he? Somehow he knew that that wasn't right. 

The doorbell rang after a while, and Richie didn't even bother to open his eyes, thinking that it was probably one of his mother’s friends. He didn't expect a knock on his door, and he certainly didn't expect to see Connor peeking his head through the crack with a huge grin on his face. Richie shot up immediately, confused and surprised, when Connor put his index finger in front of his lips.

“I told your mom that I’m here to bring you homework,” he said after closing the door behind himself, raising his hand to show the small stack of papers he was holding.

“How the fuck did you know where I live?” Richie asked in response, scooting back on his bed. 

Connor grinned. “Got it from the secretary,” he replied. “You know, you’d expect them to be a little more confidential with stuff like that, but you’d be surprised.”

“Because no one is expecting people to just show up at random people’s houses, you fucking creep,” Richie shot back, but he couldn't quite hold back a smile. Connor simply shrugged, disregarding the insult as he climbed on top of the bed next to him.

“Nevermind that,” he said, leaning slightly, “what the fuck happened at school? I heard from this one girl that you got into a fight with a redneck? What the literal fuck, Richie?” he asked, giggling. Thinking back on it, it did sound pretty funny.

Richie looked him up and down for a moment, nervous, wondering if he should tell him about what had happened. _ Screw it. _“Some asshole called Eddie a fag,” he replied, as indifferent as possible. Connor’s grin fell. “When I told him to shut up he started harassing both of us, so I punched him in the face. That’s it.” He shrugged, trying his best not to show how much he could see Connor deflating. 

“I see,” Connor replied. “W-well, it’s what he deserved, right?” Richie looked up to see him smiling sadly. “People who harass other people like that deserve to be punched in the face. I… I don't blame you, you know?” He sounded guilty, and it made sense. Of course he would feel guilty, of course he would blame himself. He _ should _blame himself. But Richie didn't feel like blaming him anymore, he didn't want to see that expression on his face, didn't want to always feel like the things Connor had said months ago had opened a wound that was impossible to close. 

He wanted to say something, perhaps reassure him for a reason even he didn't understand, when there was a knock on his door. He saw how Connor scooted away by barely an inch, but it felt like they were oceans apart. 

His mother peeked her head through the crack and gave them one of the prettiest but emptiest smiles Richie had ever seen. “I’m so sorry, um…”

“Connor,” Connor reminded.

“Right, Connor,” his mother repeated. “I’m so sorry, but Richie is grounded and not allowed to see any of his friends until the suspension is over.” _ You need to leave, _she was saying, but she was ever so polite, because she always was. 

Connor looked around as if he hadn't realised that he had been sitting on Richie’s bed. “Right, I’m so sorry Mrs Tozier. I’ll leave in a bit, I just wanted to explain some things to Richie since he hasn't been to class.” He was good at lying, also good at being polite. Him and Richie’s mother would get along well.

She smiled. “Of course, dear. Just thought I’d remind you.” She closed the door and her footsteps disappeared after a moment, vanishing beyond the stairs. There was a tense silence hanging in the air for only a moment before Connor took a deep breath and got to his feet.

“I should go,” he said. He was still smiling, but it had gone dull, strained. “Don't want to piss off your mom, you know?” He was about to turn around when he paused and looked at Richie again. “By the way, I wasn't bullshitting you, that _ is _homework. Have fun!” he added as Richie groaned. After a moment and a quick wave he was gone, and Richie was once again left with his thoughts and a pile of homework scattered across his bed. 

He sighed and picked the pile up to look over what he had to do, when a corner of a yellow piece of paper caught his eye. Frowning in confusion, he pulled it out and saw that it was a small post-it note. It said, in big letters, _ Next time we play Street Fighter I’ll beat your ass _along with an obnoxiously cute caricature of Connor flipping him off. It was so stupid, but Richie felt like crying. 

—

Richie messed with the vegetables on his plate, his chin in his hand, his appetite nowhere to be found. He rolled one of the peas along the rim using his fork, frowned when it sank into his mashed potatoes, and picked another one. He had barely eaten a single bite since they had sat down, but he felt so jittery and tired and anxious that it was hard to as much as think about eating. He thought he could fake feeling sick, just to get out of sitting at the table with his parents for another second longer, staring at his sad plate illuminated by the dull ceiling lamp. He had never realised how ugly that lamp was, how it cast shadows everywhere with the weak lightbulb. Even looking at it made him feel like he would be sick, so he turned his gaze to his parents instead.

His mother looked beautiful and made up as always, with her pearl necklace and red lips. Richie had never figured out why she insisted on wearing makeup when she didn't even leave the house, but he couldn't even really think of a time when he hadn't seen her without her bold liner and red lips. He nails matched, of course, because they always did, and they gleamed brightly under the light. She was playing with the wedding band on her left hand as she used the other to elegantly eat her dinner. 

His father was sat at the other end of the table as always, looking tired and untalkative, which was unusual for him. His mother had always said that one of the things that had made her fall in love with him was how he could talk about nothing for hours and still be entertaining, but that night there was nothing. His father was quieter than the fly buzzing somewhere in the kitchen and occasionally hitting the window in a desperate attempt to get out. He had loosened his tie since he had arrived, his hair wasn't perfectly styled like it had been that morning, and there was a subtle frown on his face, making lines appear where there normally weren't any. The air was tense, Richie could sense that, and he wasn't used to it being tense with his family.

“When does you suspension end again, flutter bum?” his father asked then, as if he too had taken notice of the awkward silence. Richie mused that his personality resembled his father’s in that regard.

“Two days,” he replied, picking up some mashed potatoes with his fork and watching as it dropped back into the pile. It was flavourless. 

“You know,” his father said then, “I could drive you to school from now on. It’s fine with me.” He said it nonchalantly, like an off-hand suggestion, but Richie could pick out the tension in his tone, how it was more of a demand rather than an offer.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, the weather is getting cold anyway,” his mother added, also sounding awkward. Richie frowned at the two of them.

“Winter’s almost over, what are you talking about? Even Eddie doesn't wear his snow coat anymore.”

His mother’s brow creased further. “Well, there’s no harm in being extra careful. March is when people get sick the most, you know.”

“Is it?” Richie asked, confused. “It’s fine, though, really. Dad goes to work earlier than school starts anyway, I don't want to just hang around for twenty minutes before my friends get there.” He added after a moment of thought, “Besides, getting some exercise is nice.”

“Right,” his mother replied, shuffling in her seat, “I just think that it would be nice if you didn't have to go to school by bike every day.”

“I don't _ have to _ go by bike, I just like going with my friends,” Richie argued. He squinted at his parents. “What’s this _ really _ about? You’ve never been worried about me going to school by bike before, and I’ve been doing just that since the beginning of _ middle school.” _

His father huffed like the topic irritated and bothered him, like it was a chore to talk about. “Just don't pass by the synagogue, alright?” he asked, like it was the end of the conversation, and it annoyed Richie even more.

“Why not?” he demanded. “If we don't go by the synagogue that means we’ll have to take a detour around McCaron Park and the library, and it takes so much longer to get to school that way.”

His father clenched his jaw, his fingers drumming on the table. “That’s why I’m telling you that I can drive you there,” he said, and the air around them was getting much more tense, electrified almost. Every hair on Richie’s body was beginning to stand up in irritation.

“This is so stupid,” he said finally. “Why the fuck do you care so much?”

“Richard!” his mother gasped, her frown deep and disapproving. 

“What?!” he yelled back, throwing his arms in the air. “Neither of you are giving me an explanation and I’m tired of this!”

His parents were quiet for a moment, with his mother throwing hesitant glances at his father who didn't even raise his glare from his plate, the beat of his fingers more erratic now, harder on the wood. The tension was heavy and uncomfortable, the buzzing of the fly had become so loud that it felt like it was inside Richie’s head, and he was getting more and more irritated by the second. After the moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity, thick enough to choke on, his mother finally sighed. 

“Sweetie, we’re telling you because—”

“Maggie!” his father said threateningly.

“No,” she said in return, “he has a right to know, so he can protect himself. Are you going to be with him twenty four seven?” His father seemed displeased by her words, but he kept his mouth shut. She took a deep breath and sank in her chair. “That’s what I’d thought.”

Richie was barely holding back a groan, his fingers itching to run through his hair in frustration. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on already?”

“Sweetheart,” she said then, her voice far too sweet compared to before, far too gentle. It did the opposite of reassuring him. “Do you remember Patrick Hylton? He used to live by the synagogue but moved away around three months ago?”

Richie frowned, he couldn't understand for the life of him why his parents would be so concerned about a house. “Yes,” he replied tentatively, wondering if there was a wrong answer to that question, judging by the way she had asked it.

“Well, some new people moved in recently,” she continued, slow and pointy, like she was reading a rule book to infants. “Some people we find… well, not very _ normal, _you see. We’re just worried they might cause you or your friends harm, that’s it.”

Although Richie’s gut feeling told him to run out of the dining room and lock himself in his bedroom as soon as he possibly could, his curiosity got the better of him. “What do you mean cause us harm? Who are they?” he asked, and even then the heavy, boulder-like dread in his stomach was telling him to stop asking questions immediately. He clenched his fist under the table, his fingernails digging into the flash of his palm. 

“Fairies,” his father said then, with a tone colder than any Richie had heard before, and the boulder sank even deeper. He felt sick, like he could puke out the two or three peas he had managed to force down his throat. His palm hurt. 

“H-how do you know?” he asked hesitantly.

His mother waved a hand like the topic was awfully silly. “Oh, we don't know if they’re queers, dear, it’s just in case,” she replied. 

“You’ve been over to their house, you told me yourself that they were fairies,” his father said.

“I never said they _ were, _ dear, I just said that there’s a possibility that they might be. I mean, the house was so clean!” she exclaimed, looking incredulous. “Two men living in a small house, and it’s that clean? It’s very odd.” She leaned in closer as if she was gossiping with her friends about an ugly dress. “You remember Suzy, right? Well, she told me that Karen told her that one of them had been wearing a pink apron when she went over to their house to welcome them to the neighbourhood. Apparently he invited her in for some cookies he had just baked.”

The entirety of Richie’s body had gone cold with anxiety, he felt his muscles lock up like his body was slowly shutting off. He pressed his lips together and refrained from speaking for a moment, trying to process his mother’s words. “I see,” he heard himself say then, his voice sounding like it didn't belong to him, like his body had taken over to save him.

“So you should avoid the synagogue from now on,” his father concluded. “Tell your friends too. That chubby boy lives near it, doesn't he? Maybe he should start carrying something to protect himself with, we don't know what they might do.”

Richie swallowed, but the pear sized lump in his throat didn't budge. “You… You don't think they would actually do something, do you?” he asked, and he must have sounded afraid because his mother cooed at reached over to place her hand over his.

“We’re just being cautious, dear,” she said. “I mean, do you know how many boys get molested by pedophiles disguised as priests nowadays? It’s truly horrible.”

_ That probably says more about priests than it does about gays, _Richie thought, but said, “Okay,” instead, pinching his inner forearm as a way to relieve the tension building up in his body, “I’ll tell them, we’ll stay away.”

His parents looked satisfied with the answer and returned to their dinner. After a couple minutes of staring at his own food, Richie excused himself and went up the stairs to essentially hide from them, hide from the world. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, as if something within him had wanted to jump out and tell them that they were _ wrong, _but couldn't muster the courage to do so. He felt sick, his head hurt like it had been hit with a hammer. Beverly had once mentioned that smoking helped her get rid of headaches or help her calm down if she was feeling anxious, he wondered if he could sneak into his father’s office and steal one or two. Dismissing the thought, he climbed onto his bed in the dark and pulled his knees to his chest. It was a weird feeling, to be numb and anxious at the same time, to disassociate hard enough to not feel his own fingertips yet being hyper aware of everything that was in close proximity to him. 

_ Are you surprised? _ a voice in his head asked him. _ Did you really think that just because Mrs Andrews is accepting, your own parents would be as well? Do you really feel betrayed when deep down you’d known all along? _ And no, he wasn't surprised. Derry was a small town in Maine, his parents had never left the town in their lives; most people living there hadn't. And yet a small part of him had really thought that it wasn't _ that _bad, it had wanted to believe.

_ I can't be queer, _ he thought to himself. _ I’m not, I can't be. _

And all of a sudden Eddie popped into his mind, uninvited, _ unwanted. _ Him and his soft nose scrunches, and how much Richie had once dreamed about wanting to be near him when they were older. It had been a simple thought, akin to the thoughts of every single kid thinking about having to leave their best friend behind one day, but he knew that that wasn't the case anymore. He wanted to cry, he wanted to be sick, he wanted Eddie to be there so he could reassure him. He wanted him to roll his eyes and tell Richie that he was overreacting, that _ of course _ his parents didn't mean it like _ that, _ or _ of course _he was normal. He wanted to hold his hand like they used to in their childhood, and as time passed he wanted so much more. 

Lying in bed in the dark was an odd thing; it let one’s mind wander off to territories it really shouldn't, but it was hard to control. There was nothing to disturb his line of thought, nothing breaking the silence other than his own ragged breathing as his thoughts got weirder and weirder, and he simply couldn't stop them from coming.

Frustrated, he got up from his bed and checked to see if his parents were still having dinner. Although they weren't, they were now in the living room; his father watching a football match and his mother knitting. He closed the door once again and walked over to his bed, dropped to his knees and stuck his hand under the frame in search for something. His fingertips made contact with a smooth, thin material, and he pulled out the magazine he had found in the woods. He had kept it, for reasons even he couldn't understand, but it was both thrilling and incredibly guilt inducing to even be in the possession of it. He checked for noises downstairs once again, and climbed on top of his bed.

He grabbed the flashlight on his bedside drawer and hid the magazine under the covers so if anyone were to walk in, he could easily hide it. His hands were trembling once again as he looked at the cover, but there was a feeling other than guilt in the pit of his stomach, something that made his mouth go dry and his cheeks flush. It was like the feeling of something being squeezed inside of him, something he found himself feel more often than not when he looked at the magazine, which was far too many times than he cared to admit. And it felt _ good, _ it was _ right, _and it felt absolutely sickening. He was terrified of his own actions as he flipped the pages to get to the one picture he — guiltily — liked the best; the picture of the small, dark haired, dark eyed boy who didn't have freckles or a small, upturned nose, and whose hair was chestnut rather than black, but in the weak light of the flashlight none of those seemed to matter. 

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, feeling shameful and afraid and like he had already been branded as the outcast. _ No one knows, _ he thought to himself, over and over again. _ No one knows I have this. No one knows I’m doing this. No one knows. _And yet it felt like there were hundreds of eyes on him, watching his every move from the shadows. 

The more he looked at the picture, the more his imagination went wild, the more he felt that tight, squeezing feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what that feeling was, _ of course _he knew it, but admitting that seemed like admitting to everything else, and he didn't know if he was ready to do that — if he would ever be ready.

He squeezed his legs just to get rid of some of the pressure, but it seemed to build up more and more by the second. He wanted to do something about it. The dark eyes of the model were drawing him in, blinding the rational part of his brain and leaving only a primal sense of _ want _with the whispers of guilt in the distance. The model’s skin was so soft and smooth looking, he was beautiful and Richie wanted to leap out of the window and walk barely across the street to be with him. He lived just across the street, in that one story house with his overbearing mother and countless fanny packs. He was right there, with his full eyelashes and almost black eyes and a galaxy of freckles, with his squeaky laugh and cute hands. Richie closed his eyes, the arousal he felt a thick blanket covering every other part of his brain, leaving only that pesky feeling of tightness in his lower abdomen.

There was a noise outside, like something hitting his window. His body decided to ignore it for him, decided that he was far too preoccupied with his thoughts to leave the comfort of his bed and face reality. Another sound, enough to pull him out of his foggy mind for the fraction of a second. Another one, this time a bit louder, and the blanket finally lifted enough for him to relax his thighs in a wave of realisation as to what he was doing. His cheeks were flushed, his heart was thumping in his chest and he couldn't tell if it was from excitement or fear. His stomach was curling like it did when he was upset, when he needed to be sick, but neither of those things seemed to be the case. He stared at the image, horrified by his own actions, when the incessant sound caught his attention again. Needing to get away from the magazine and everything he had wanted to do a moment ago, he scrambled off the bed to look out of the window. He hadn't expected to see the object of his shameful thoughts.

Eddie stood there in the dark, his palm full of small pebbles, looking annoyed until he spotted Richie at the window. He threw the rest of the pebbles on the ground and waved at him, and it was horrible. It was as if this was punishment for wanting to be with him by manifesting his desire right in front of him. Eddie wasn't across the street anymore, he was stood in Richie’s backyard, his hands stuffed into his pockets because they were probably freezing, grinning like an absolute idiot and making Richie’s body do more than just tighten up. His heart was racing, his mind was jumbled up, and he didn't understand and yet everything seemed crystal clear. 

He opened the window. “What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing, dickwad?” he whisper-yelled down to his friend, who merely scowled at how panicked Richie was. “I’m grounded, you can't fucking be here.”

“I know,” Eddie replied. “Already tried once, your mom sent me back.”

“Why the fuck are you back, then?”

“I didn't think your suspension would last this long!” Eddie replied. “Climb down, let’s go somewhere.”

Richie spluttered, confused. “Eds, my mom would _ kill me,” _ he said seriously.

Eddie sighed in frustration. “Fine. I’m coming up, then,” he said, already trying to find a good place to hold onto on the side of the house. Richie looked back in panic in case his parents were coming up the stairs, but no one was there.

“Did you hit your fucking head or something?” he asked angrily, panicked. “You don't even have the balls to not carry hand sanitizer with you everywhere, what the _ fuck _has gotten into you?!”

“Stop being so lame,” Eddie grumbled, trying to find his footing on the garbage bins. And Richie didn't understand, Eddie had never been the type of person to do something so dangerous, he could barely go up a hiking trail without complaining every two minutes about how dangerous it was, but he was climbing up the wall with only a small frown on his face. “Help me get in, jackass, I can't hang here all night,” he said when he could grasp the window ledge with one hand. After a second of cursing his luck, Richie grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him up and into his room. They tumbled onto the floor, the carpet softening their fall and the noise, and Eddie fell flat on top of Richie, knocking the air out of him. They both groaned.

Eddie shuffled on top of him uncomfortably. “You’re so hard, what the fuck?” he said in annoyance. Richie’s blood froze in his veins, his body went tense. Had the photo really affected him that much? Could Eddie feel it? “Gain some weight, you’re all bones and shit. Not comfortable at all,” Eddie grumbled as he clambered off of him, and Richie felt like he could breathe again. He let out an airy chuckle of relief. _ Small mercies. _

“You’re skinnier than me, asshole,” he said as he got up, hoping his pleased smile was hidden by the darkness. “Besides, not like I’m your fucking bed, Eds.”

“Don't call me that,” Eddie muttered off handedly as he tried to reoriente himself. “Why were you sitting in the dark? Creep.”

“Maybe I was planning on _ sleeping,” _Richie replied sarcastically. He then remembered the magazine on his bed, under the covers, still open on that picture. He awkwardly got to his feet and threw himself on his bed to make sure his body was directly on top of it so Eddie couldn't see anything. His heart was still thumping in his chest, and the discomfort he felt in the pit of his stomach remained.

Eddie rolled his eyes and climbed on top of the bed as well, crossing his legs. “I almost fucking died to get up here, be a little grateful maybe?”

“Who wants to see your ugly ass face in the middle of the night?” Richie shot back. It was easy to lie, no matter how adorable Eddie looked in his huge sweater, sitting on Richie’s bed in his room, as if that was exactly where he belonged. It was a terrifying thought, but perhaps his brain was still fuzzy from a couple minutes ago, because Richie just found himself feeling warm and flushed. Then he remembered the conversation with his parents, and his body grew cold again.

_ “You _ do,” Eddie replied off-handedly, and it was almost like torture because Richie couldn't help but think that Eddie was doing that deliberately, just to mess with him, to make fun of him behind his back. But when he looked at Eddie’s eyes that were the same shade of black as the shadows in his room, he didn't know how to feel anymore.

“You wish,” he opted on saying. “Anyway, I’m going to repeat my earlier question if that’s okay with you, dickhead: why the literal fuck are you here?”

Eddie shrugged, he looked a bit bothered by the question. “Got bored,” he replied nonchalantly. It was suspicious. Richie squinted at him.

“You wouldn't risk falling to your death just ‘cause you got bored, Eds,” he pointed out, and he couldn't be sure through the dark but he thought that Eddie might be blushing.

Eddie rolled his eyes again, Richie was starting to worry about his optic nerves because it couldn't possibly be healthy to strain them so much. Eddie would probably freak out if he mentioned it to him, though. “I just haven’t seen your stupid fucking face for a while, alright? Don't flatter yourself too much, I just remembered how fucking ugly you are.” He was avoiding eye contact, his blush was so dark that Richie could see it perfectly. Something churned in his stomach, his own ears were burning red. He didn't know what to say, he couldn't get out of the awkward conversation, so he mockingly cooed him instead.

“That’s so cute, Eds,” he said in an exaggerated baby voice, pinching Eddie’s cheeks. “Couldn't handle being away from me for too long? Aw, Eddie Bear!”

“Get away from me, asshole!” Eddie exclaimed, trying to shoo his hands away, and Richie couldn't help his giggling.

“Come on, Eds, just a little ki—”

They both froze when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Richie quickly shoved Eddie off the bed and told him under his breath to hide under the bed or that they would both die. Eddie crawled under the frame as quickly as possible, and the door to the bedroom opened as soon as his foot disappeared from view. 

“Hey, flutter bum,” Richie’s father said, seeming much happier than during dinner. He looked like he’d had a couple of beers. “Thought you might be asleep by now.”

Richie gave him a tight smile and shook his head. “No, I will in a bit, though. I’m really tired.”

“You and me both, kiddo,” his father said, entering the room and closing the door behind him. “Hey, is it okay if we have a little chat? Not going to take long, don't worry, wouldn't want to keep you from sleeping when you go to bed at a reasonable hour for once in your life.”

Richie wanted to say no, but he realised how suspicious that would look. He shot another glance at the edge of his bed before he nodded. His father walked towards his bed and sat down, he looked serious again.

“We don't want to smother you, you do know that, right?” he asked, but it seemed like he just wanted to be reassured, despite what Richie really felt. He nodded anyway. “So you know why we told you the things we did?” He nodded again. His father got serious. “If any man tried to touch you, or ask you to go somewhere with them, you say no. If they try to take you by force, you scream. Got that?”

Richie was barely holding back the desire to roll his eyes. “I know, dad,” he replied, just so the conversation would go by faster. His father didn't seem entirely convinced but he clapped him on the shoulder and got off the bed anyway.

“Don't stay up too late, mom would be pissed,” he said playfully.

“I won't!” Richie replied. “Night!”

After the door was closed, there was a moment of hesitation before he started hearing shuffling noises again. “Wow,” Eddie said, poking his head up from the edge of the bed. “What the fuck was that all about?”

Richie sighed. _ I wish I could just go to sleep. _“My parents are worried about a couple that moved near the synagogue, it’s no big deal.”

Eddie scowled. “Why would they be worried?” His eyes widened in fear. “Are they satanists or something? Murderers? Did a couple of _ murderers _move into our town? Oh my God, Richie—”

“No, what the fuck?” Richie said, frowning in confusion. “No, it’s not that, they’re… I mean…”

Eddie inched a little closer to him. “They’re what?”

“Queers,” Richie replied finally, frustrated. “They’re gay, okay? And my mom and dad are freaked out because they think they might hurt us or some shit, I don't know. My dad even said he would drive me to school, and they wouldn't let me go until I promised not to pass by the synagogue.”

“We would have to take a detour!” Eddie exclaimed. 

“That’s what I said!” Richie replied, leaning back against his headboard.

Eddie just scowled to himself for a moment. “That’s so fucking stupid,” he grumbled, and Richie let out a scoff.

“Yeah, I know. Don't worry, I’m not planning on listening to them.”

“No, not that,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “I mean, that too, but they think we’d get hurt because they’re queer? That’s fucking dumb.”

Richie blinked, took a moment to process Eddie’s words and ease the feeling of tension in his stomach, how it churned and something seemed to flutter within it. His breath was stuck in his throat, and Eddie was still scowling at him, but he almost couldn't care because this was a glimpse of _ hope. _It was a momentary feeling of being safe, not being afraid of losing one more person, and it was a sort of relief he didn't think he had ever felt before. And he was scared, because what if he was wrong? What if that wasn't what Eddie meant? Questions roamed in his head, fruitlessly waiting to be answered, but Eddie was still staring at him and he was expecting a response so Richie cleared his throat and avoided his gaze.

“Yeah,” he agreed with an awkward, shaky voice. He didn't know if Eddie had caught it, but for at least a moment it didn't seem to matter. “Yeah, it’s fucking dumb.”

Eddie left shortly after that, following Richie’s worried nagging about his parents hearing the two of them. He grumbled all the way down about how unsafe it was to climb, how they needed to change the planks, how the garbage cans weren't balanced properly, as if he wasn't the one who had come up with the idea to climb on top of them. When he found his footing on the grass once again he dusted himself and waved at Richie, smirking, who returned it, and then he was gone. He jogged out of the yard and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Richie to wonder if he had imagined his presence all along, if his mind had been so lonely that it had created a vision of Eddie out of the feelings brought by the magazine. But the part of the bed he had been sitting on was still warm, there was a little bit of mud on his carpet, and his hand burned where he had touched Eddie’s skin, his fingers still aflame with the memory of his cheeks under them.

And he laid on his bed, staring at his ceiling, with a new feeling blooming deep within him. This one was gentle but just as warm, enough to burn him whole if he wasn't careful. He felt _ hopeful, _like everything could be okay one day. Like it was okay to feel alive and enamoured and confused, if only for that night. When he closed his eyes he didn't feel like there were eyes all over the walls, watching him, hiding in the shadows. The only thing in his mind were a pair of dark brown, almost black eyes, and a cute smile to go along with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry about the typos and mistakes, didn't have the time to edit the chapter ;-; i'll get to it tomorrow!


	9. Chapter 9

It was a good day when Richie’s alarm clock woke him up at seven in the morning. He could see the sunlight creeping in through his windows, no longer a mere impersonation but rather a promise of warm weather. The house was quiet, his father had most likely already left and his mother hadn't woken up yet. He didn't feel as tired as usual as he walked into the bathroom and took a quick shower, toweled his hair dry, and put on fairly light clothes. Perhaps he was being far too optimistic, blinded by the sight of spring around the corner, but he liked looking at himself in the mirror and not seeing his skinny figure swallowed up by layers and layers of thick clothing. He watched his reflection for a moment, still not out of the grasps of sleep just yet; his hair had gotten pretty long, to the point where he could probably tie it up if he wanted to. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten a haircut. It had started curling oddly here and there, parted somewhere along the middle and framing his face, which had gotten just a bit sharper. He didn't know when those changes had appeared, but they were welcome nonetheless. He made a face at the mirror, which his reflection copied, and then swung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out of the house. 

Eddie was complaining as always when they met up in front of his house, this time about not having any breakfast because he had overslept. They were in a weird place, or rather Richie was in a weird place, after Eddie had climbed up into his room in the middle of the night. Richie had come to realise that he didn't fight the fuzzy feeling as much as he used to. He still didn't feel fully comfortable with holding his gaze for too long, but he felt like he was doing better. He had to wonder if Mrs Andrews had been right about seasonal depression after all. 

They talked about spring break as they made their way to school once they got together with the rest of their friends, chattering excitedly and teasing each other, and it felt like everything was back to normal with a few added, confusing but easier to handle feelings. Richie felt like he could breathe a little better after months. 

He parted with his friends after they entered the building to go to his english class, waving over his shoulder and trying to maneuver through the crowd. It was loud as always, but he realised that he didn't actually care all that much on that particular morning. He was patting his thigh in the beat of  _ Should I Stay or Should I Go _ as he entered the classroom and walked to the back, towards where he usually sat. It was a good day. He pulled out his walkman and slid the headphones over his ears, closed his eyes and let Buddy Holly’s voice take him somewhere else until the teacher decided to show up.

He was almost dozing off when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He held back a sigh and opened his eyes, only to be faced with a grinning Connor sitting next to him. Richie straightened up in confusion, frowning, but Connor just placed a finger in front of his own lips. “Missed you, Tozier,” he whispered playfully, and Richie couldn't even reply before the door opened and Mrs Lopez walked in, looking especially grumpy. 

“I saw you two days ago, dipshit,” Richie whispered to Connor, unable to hold his own grin back, and Connor simply shrugged. Like an afterthought, he pointed out, “You’re not in this class.”

“The things you do for true love,” Connor replied, and Richie rolled his eyes in response and tried to ignore the warmth he felt at the tips of his ears. 

“Is there something wrong, Mr Tozier?” Mrs Lopez asked, with a tone that clearly showed that she didn't actually care about whether something was wrong and simply meant to say  _ Shut up.  _ But Richie was in a mood far too good for his own well being, or rather the sanity of those around him.

He raised to his feet under Connor’s joyous gaze, and said, “I really need to take a dump.”

She seemed caught off guard for a moment before she furrowed her brows. There were a couple of snickers going around the classroom. “Excuse me?” she asked, once again not asking anything in particular but ordering him to quiet down. It was funny, she was the one who’d asked if anything was wrong. 

“I need to take a dump,” Richie repeated, swaying back and forth on his heels. It felt nice to be himself again. “You asked.” 

Connor raised to his feet as well. “Me too,” he said, grinning. “Oh man, it’s really bad.”

“Yeah,” Richie agreed, putting on a pained face. “Oof, you should probably let us both go, or we might just explode right here.” He could see a couple people hiding their grins behind their hands, a couple who seemed to be sick of the ordeal already, and a couple who were throwing hesitant glances at Mrs Lopez, who seemed to regret ever becoming a teacher. Richie couldn't help but wonder why she had become one in the first place. 

Seemingly deciding that they weren't worth the hassle, she waved her hand in the direction of the door and let the two of them go. She didn't give them the bathroom pass, and Richie assumed that that was her way of making sure they got in trouble if they got caught. The two of them exited the classroom quickly, trying to hide their grins, and barely managed to stifle their giggles once they were out of the classroom. 

“So fucking stupid,” Connor said, shaking his head. A strand of loose curls fell over his forehead. 

Richie elbowed him on the arm. “Excuse me,” he said, impersonating the way Mrs Lopez stood with her back straight and her chin up, as well as her distinct but poorly replicated New Hampshire accent. “How dare you call my master plan stupid!”

“Is that supposed to be her?” Connor asked between his chuckles. “God, that’s fucking awful!”

“‘That’s fucking awful!’” Richie repeated in an overly exaggerated southern accent. “Come on, redneck, we haven't got all day,” he said in his normal voice, then grabbed Connor by the wrist and started pulling him towards the stairs.

“I’m from Portland!” 

“Doesn't matter when your cousin looks like he was conceived in a fucking tractor,” Richie argued, still dragging him. Connor huffed out a chuckle but didn't say anything back. 

They walked through the yard and went under the benches at the football field and collapsed on the ground, chuckling lightly and joking around like they always did. It had started to become familiar, how he was with Connor. His presence was welcomed, Richie felt like he didn't have to be so tense around him all the time anymore. 

“So, what are you doing for spring break?” Connor asked, lighting up a cigarette. He offered one like he always did, and after a moment of hesitation Richie accepted it. It had been a while since he had last smoked, he didn't crave nicotine or feel his fingers itch with the lack of a cigarette between them, it was more of a social thing he had come to enjoy. Of course, his lungs weren't used to inhaling anything other than oxygen, still, so he coughed as Connor lit it up for him. 

“I made plans with my friends,” he replied between his small coughs. Connor was smiling at him, and it created this weird sense of giddiness deep within his body. “We’re going to Hermon for a day or two. You know, camping and stuff. My dad thought it was a  _ great  _ idea for ‘a young man my age’ to ‘spend some time with his guy friends’ and all that.”

Connor furrowed his brows in confusion, chuckling lightly. “Hermon?” he asked. “What the fuck are you guys doing in Hermon? It’s not skiing season.”

“We’re going to the beach, dumbass,” Richie said. He pursed his lips and blew the smoke right at Connor’s face, who tried to look awfully unimpressed with his antics but couldn't hide the twitching of the corners of his mouth. 

“Haven't been to the beach in a while,” he mused, and then his expression got slightly sad, wistful. “Portland was full of ‘em, should have enjoyed it while I was there. Who knows when I’ll get to go to one now.”

Richie looked at him, watched the way he breathed and blinked, and realised that he wanted to reassure him once again. He knew that Connor didn't like living in Derry, that he missed home and he missed his mother, that he would return in a heartbeat if he could. He couldn't help but feel a little jealous, but he didn't really understand what of. 

He took a drag, the smoke eased down his throat and into his lungs, the burn minimum now. He pursed his lips slightly to the right and blew sideways, cleared his throat and shuffled in his place. “Um,” he started hesitantly, “listen, you don't have to, but… um… well,” he could see Connor shooting him a curious glance out of the corner of his eye, “I mean… you could, like, come with us? If you want to, I mean.”

When he turned to face Connor, he saw multiple emotions pass through his face in the matter of a few seconds. He looked surprised at first, then he seemed hesitant, then excited and eager, hesitant once again, and finally settled on a small smile Richie couldn't quite read. “Thanks, man,” he muttered, and he didn't even need to finish speaking for Richie to understand what he was about to say, “I’d love to, I mean, it sounds great, but—”

“No, it’s alright,” Richie cut him off quickly, embarrassed. “It was a stupid idea, nevermind. I didn't… I mean, you don't—”

“Richie,” Connor said softly, placing a gentle hand on Richie’s thigh. It burned like sizzling metal, melting his flesh over his clothes. “I told you, I would  _ love  _ to, but I need to help my old man out with some stuff, you know? I’m going to be working over the break.”

“Oh,” Richie said, suddenly feeling stupid. The tips of his ears felt warm, he hoped his hair was long enough to cover them up. “Yeah, that… that makes sense.”

“But hey,” Connor continued, his hand on Richie’s thigh tightened in what was probably meant to be reassurance, but it did nothing other than make him want to curl up and hide his face in his knees, “we can still hang out when you’re back, right? I’m not going to be busy  _ all  _ the time.”

And Richie smiled, not understanding why he was feeling so giddy, and nodded. He took another drag while he was distracted, and ended up inhaling far too much than he could handle. 

—

It was confusing to feel the way he did most of the time, he couldn't understand what it was or how to make it stop, if it was even possible to stop, but sitting quietly in his room and having no perspective other than his own seemed like torture. Mrs Andrews must have taken notice of Richie’s unusual silence, because she asked if something was wrong, like she always did, with a kind voice and an ever kinder smile. And Richie wondered if he should tell her what was really bothering him; if he should tell her about the confusing feelings and the ever existing fear that someone would look into his eyes and notice. About how he was always doubtful of how he concealed his thoughts and feelings, about how he had questions about himself he’d never had before. 

He stopped playing with the strings of the guitar and hesitated for a moment, running the options through his mind once again. He didn't know when he had become so calculative. In the end, he reluctantly asked, “Could you tell me a bit about your friend? The one that… uh… was born in the wrong body.”

At once her expression shifted, her eyes got glassy as if she had been thrusted into memories she hadn't been expecting to revisit. But she smiled then; not like her usual, bright smiles that made the corners of her eyes crease with joy, but with a sort of melancholy that seemed to fill the entire room. “Well, her name was Diana,” she started, picking at her nails, “and she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and probably will ever meet, to be honest with you. She had this beautiful, smooth dark skin and the tightest curls I’ve ever seen in my life. It was as wild and untameable as her, but I suppose I was the only one who found that breathtaking.” She chuckled to herself. She talked about her friend often, but had never allowed a window to showcase her heart and the things she had buried there. Richie didn't know if she had simply grown tired of having to forget her friend or if she had been looking forward to someone asking about her, but he felt like he could relate to her. He missed Beverly too. “She always called herself  _ Princess  _ Diana, I think she just enjoyed feeling like royalty in those fancy balls.”

Richie frowned, confused. “Balls? There are balls in New York?”

She laughed again, this time it didn't sound as sad. “No, dear, not the kind you’re thinking of. A ball is an event made by and for queer folks, you see. It’s when they’re allowed to be themselves freely, let their creativity flow in extravagant outfits and gorgeous dance moves.” She sighed with longing. “I’ve been to a couple of her balls before. Of course, it was hard to understand and feel comfortable in a world I clearly didn't belong at first, but it’s simply so  _ charming  _ that I couldn't help but want to see it. Oh, Diana was absolutely crazy about those balls. She was even in a house.”

“What’s a house?” Richie asked. He didn't exactly understand it himself, but Mrs Andrews was telling him things he had never heard about before. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to ask so many questions when was so afraid of suspicion, but it was as if there was a door in front of him, looking heavy and hard to open, but there was music coming from the other side of it. He was intrigued in a way that had started to become rather familiar in his life, although he couldn't pinpoint exactly when that had happened. 

She sighed again, this time in discomfort. Richie didn't know if she was particularly bad at hiding her feelings or if she just didn't feel the need to with him, but it was nice to have someone he could read easily without worrying about what the thoughts beyond their words were. “Well, I’m sure you know that sometimes queer folks get kicked out of their own homes.” Richie nodded, suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable. “Well, they can join a house and live with people like them, if they desire to. Their new family takes care of them and they take care of the family.” Richie nodded slowly. She went back to picking at her nails. “I once found this little kitty while I was returning home from work back in New York. Oh, she was just the prettiest little thing, a total brat, too. I had to take her home and name her Princess, of course. My husband always complains about having a cat with such a ‘girly’ name but I wouldn't change it for the whole world.”

It felt weird, it felt  _ wrong,  _ to hear about someone like  _ that  _ with nothing but utter love and longing, when he had gotten so used to hearing only hushed whispers and barely hidden glares. It didn't feel real, he couldn't understand why Mrs Andrews was so different from the people he had been raised around, he couldn't understand why she didn't scrunch her nose in distaste, he didn't understand how she could tell her story with so much affection towards this person that was so out of the norm. Mrs Andrews was beautiful and elegant, as well as incredibly smart and talented; the perfect image of the perfect woman in the eyes of society, he couldn't possibly fathom  _ why  _ she deviated so much from being the perfect person he had grown up to believe. Why was she so unapologetically different when that would cause trouble for her? Richie hated the thought of being different, why wasn't she as afraid of it as he was?

Her words made him far too optimistic, made him feel like his feet had been lifted from the ground of reality. It was scary to not feel scared. “How did she die?” he asked, hating the way it made her face change.  _ Why does she look so sad? Why does she care at all?  _ “Sorry if I’m, like, intruding or something. I’m just curious.”

“No, it’s okay,” she replied, sniffling and shaking her head.  _ Why does she care so much?  _ “Well, uh, she died of The  _ Virus,”  _ she said carefully. “What an awful thing, swept so many beautiful people into their graves.”

He had heard about it, of course he had. Although his parents asked him to leave the room when it was mentioned in fear of him being influenced by such things, he had heard about it on the radio, from people around him, from magazines and newspapers when his father left them lying on the dining table. It was described as a sort of plague that only affected the queers — also branded so eloquently as the ‘mentally ill’ by some — and there were always pictures. There were pictures of men in hospital beds, looking as healthy and joyful as a corpse, pictures of people on the streets, protesting. It had started when he was rather young, when he didn't understand anything about the world. Although there were many things he still didn't understand, the fog seemed to have had cleared enough for him to realise that he had been looking at pictures of death, of suffering. His stomach twisted and turned in discomfort, like he would be sick. 

“She didn't tell anyone about it, she didn't even tell  _ me,”  _ Mrs Andrews continued, ignorant to the train of thoughts passing through Richie’s mind. “I learned the day she collapsed on the bathroom floor while drying her hair, coughing up blood. I was terrified, because I knew immediately what was wrong with her. The fool, she tried to convince me that it was simply the flu, but I had seen far too many ashen faces to believe her. I made her dress up and dragged her into the car to drive her to the hospital while she kept telling me that it wasn't necessary. What an absolute  _ idiot  _ she was.” She sighed in frustration, as if the memory was a wound that refused to close. She took a moment to compose herself, blinked a couple of times, and continued, “Of course, I didn't listen to her. The staff at the hospital were horrible to her, to  _ us _ ; they refused to even come near her when they realised what was wrong. She begged me to leave because she was afraid of people seeing me there with her, and I suppose she was right to some extent, because people were giving me dirty looks for simply being there for my friend.”

She took a deep breath, and she looked vaguely furious. “It was a long, painful year before she passed in the early hours of the morning. I didn't even know before I went to the hospital to visit her after my shift, and they just told me that she had died and was to be cremated in the morning. I  _ begged  _ them to give me her ashes, but they just told me that they cremated AIDS patients at the same time as to save time and space for other patients, and that they couldn’t simply give me the ashes because she wasn't my husband. I was absolutely furious when they called her a man, when they insisted on using the word ‘husband.’”

Richie took a moment to take in all of the things she had spat out, the words that had tumbled out like a waterfall with so much bitterness and still burning anger that it barely sounded like her. He took a moment to take in the reality of everything, to remind himself that this was the world they lived in. Uniqueness didn't mean specialness, it was punished. “Did… Did anyone care? Other than you?” he asked, wondering why he also felt choked up over a person who he didn't know and had long since died. Perhaps it was the emotions radiating off of Mrs Andrews, her teary eyes and her clenched jaw. 

“Oh, people cared,” she said, surprising him. “Her house cared, the ballroom cared, the people she had touched with her beautiful personality cared. They had a memorial service for her and every other soul that was taken far too early. A young man from her house even asked me to speak at the service, give a eulogy. I didn't think they would let in an outsider like me, but they were so kind.” She sniffled and wiped the underside of her eyes with a finger. “Oh, I’m really sorry for getting all emotional on you, Richie, this is highly unprofessional of me. Anyway, why did you want to hear about Diana?”

That was a good question. Richie didn't know exactly why he had asked either. Was it because he had wanted to know the truth about what it meant to be queer, to be different than everybody else, just so he could justify his shame? Because if that was the case, then he had done a very poor job of it, since all he had heard was the loving memories of someone that was considered beautiful by seemingly many people, and it was even more confusing. If he had wanted to hear about the morbid fate of those not conforming to the expectations of society, why did he share Mrs Andrews’ sadness over someone he didn't even know? Although he had been expecting confirmation to something he’d thought he knew perfectly well, there were even more questions in his head than ever. 

“I just wanted to know,” he replied simply. “It’s not… I mean, I’ve never met a person that thinks the way you do, miss, so I was curious. And, um, Diana seems like a really nice person, I’m really sorry for your loss.”

She smiled and patted his head in a way even his parents hadn't in a long time; gentle to the point of almost motherly, a silent promise of a good future. He felt like a child, sitting by his mother’s knee and listening to pleasant stories of her youth. It was weird. “You’re a good kid, Richie,” Mrs Andrews said. “I’m glad I got to teach you. It’s hard to find kids as tolerant as you.”

Richie smiled back, but there was guilt burning in the pit of his stomach. 

—

“Can I steal half of your lunch, Eds?” Richie said, draping himself over Eddie’s shoulder and sagging off of his smaller frame as they walked through the corridor. “I’m broke,  _ please?  _ I’ll give you a kiss as a reward.”

“There’s no fucking way I’m giving you my lunch,” Eddie said, trying to push him off. “You wouldn't even like it, it’s  _ healthy.”  _

Richie was about to reply with something sarcastic, when he paused upon hearing his name being called from somewhere. He turned his head and spotted Connor grinning and waving at him by a bunch of lockers, calling him over with a hand. Suddenly forgetting about lunch, Richie waved back and told his friends that he would join them later before jogging over to him.

“Hey,” Connor said, leaning against the lockers with his hands shoved into his pockets. Had he changed his hair? Richie decided that he looked good. 

“Hey back,” he replied, not exactly knowing what to do with his hands. He stuffed them in his pockets, then felt awkward and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I was thinking,” Connor said then, his eyebrows raised and a small smile playing on his pouty lips. “A friend of mine asked me to come to a party he’s having over spring break. There’s going to be booze. Some weed if we’re lucky.”

Richie shuffled in his place. He didn't know why he was feeling so jittery. “Good for you,” he replied slowly, teasing. He had an idea where the conversation was going, but he wanted to draw it out as much as possible. Eddie would be mad at him for making them wait. “Didn't know you had any friends other than the four-eyed loser, I’m happy for you.”

Connor rolled his eyes in good nature. “I’m asking you if you want to come, asshole,” he said without a real bite to his tone. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying their oddly roundabout conversation as much as Richie was. 

“I’ll take a look at my  _ very  _ busy schedule, I might be able to fit you in somewhere.”

Connor pushed himself off the lockers and took a step closer to him, making Richie’s eyes widen and wait with his lips pressed together. “Fit me in? Damn, at least take me to dinner first,” Connor replied, but it didn't sound like their regular teasing. It was a little drawn out, a little quiet. Richie’s heart was beating rapidly in his ribcage. 

He scoffed to hide the growing warmth under his skin, and pushed Connor away by his chest. “Shut up, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Connor’s grin didn't fall, if anything it seemed brighter. “Well, don't let me keep you here,” he said, leaning back against the lockers.

“Wasn't planning to,” Richie replied, and turned around to leave. “See you later, asshole.”

He flexed his hands and made them into fists, then flexed them again, to ease the tension in his body. He took a deep breath, and continued walking away from him, trying to keep himself from grinning too hard. He felt  _ good,  _ strangely so, still embarrassed from the light teasing. With his head so full of these thoughts, he didn't even see Eddie before running into him.. 

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Hey, Eds. What are you still doing here?”

“Don't call me that,” Eddie replied, but he didn't sound like usual. He didn't look like usual either, his shoulders were tense and his eyebrows were furrowed and the corners of his mouth were turned down in a frown. “What the fuck were you doing, talking to him?”

Richie took a second to collect himself, thrown off by Eddie’s sudden, odd reaction. “Connor?” he asked. “He’s my friend. He wanted to hang out over spring break, so we were making plans.”

“Isn't he Henry’s—?” he paused, his frown got deeper. “Wait, spring break? Thought you were going to spend spring break with  _ us.”  _

“Yeah, I am,” Richie replied slowly, confused. “We’re not going to be in Hermon all week, Eds. Besides, he’s busy most of the time anyway. We’re just going to hang out at some point, I don't really know when, though.” He crossed his arms over his chest, now frowning back at Eddie. “What the fuck’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into  _ me?  _ What’s gotten into  _ you?”  _ Eddie bit back. “Why are you hanging out with Bowers’ cousin, Rich? What the  _ fuck?” _

Richie tensed up. “You know about that?”

“Of-fucking _ -course  _ I do!” Eddie replied, incredulous. “We took so much shit from Bowers and now you’re suddenly best friends with his cousin? Are you fucking stupid, Richie?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Richie shot back, his voice getting louder and louder. He could feel the anger rising in his throat like bile. “Connor’s  _ nothing  _ like Bowers!”

“He’s his  _ cousin,  _ that shit runs in the family.”

“Can you even hear the shit you’re saying with your head shoved so far up in your ass?!” Richie exploded finally. “What the fuck, Eddie? I finally made a new friend, what’s wrong with that?”

“Oh, good to know we weren't good enough for you,” Eddie replied sarcastically, crossing his arms. “You know what, I’m glad you’re making friends with the cousin of the guy who made our lives a living hell and killed his own fucking dad. Why not just abandon us completely and become a part of his fucked up group?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Richie spat, squinting. “Don’t act like I’m the one abandoning you when you’ve been sucking Zimmerman’s dick for the past eight months.” 

Eddie’s eyes widened in surprise, and there was a messed up part of Richie that found satisfaction in that. “That has nothing to do with this,” Eddie said defensively, scowling.

“Oh, yeah?” Richie said sarcastically. “Sure, when you get all buddy-buddy with someone it’s fine, but when I do it it’s somehow ‘abandoning you’?”

“You were mad when I became friends with him!” Eddie exclaimed. 

“And then I felt bad about it and apologised to you, like an absolute fucking idiot.”

“I’m not the one befriending a fucking bully’s cousin, Rich.”

“Stop saying that!” Richie yelled. Eddie flinched, and it hurt to see him like that, but it was also satisfying in an almost sick way. He didn't want to feel those fuzzy things, he wanted to  _ hurt  _ and remember the pain, so he could refrain from feeling his heart flutter with the mere sight of him. “He’s nothing like that! I’ve known him for  _ months,  _ you think I don't know what kind of person he is?! Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie, he’s a good guy and he’s fun to hang out with and he doesn't give me shit for being friends with people!”

Eddie was quiet for a moment, his surprised look turned into a grim frown. “Well, just hang out with him from now on, then,” he said finally, quiet and tired and seething. His tone and his words sunk into the pit of Richie’s stomach like a boulder, and they stayed there, unmoving. He made his hands into fists, trying to calm down the storm within him, and just glared at Eddie.

“You know what? Maybe I will,” he spat, and Eddie didn't reply. Richie turned around and walked away as quickly as he could, his eyes burning and his jaw aching from being clenched. 

—

Richie laid on the hammock in the empty clubhouse, which was far more comfortable now that he wasn't absolutely freezing to death, with his eyes closed and his ears faintly picking up the sounds of spring from above. The darkness welcomed him behind his eyelids, like it always did when his chest felt heavy and his stomach twisted and turned with grim thoughts and confusing, unmanageable feelings. He was angry, but it wasn't the type of anger that burned as hot as lava and coursed through one’s veins in an attempt to turn their insides to ash. It was the type of anger that was bone deep, whining and growling into his ears and echoing in his head, heavy and tight and dry. It was a shade of blue that was threatening, cold and prickling. He opened his eyes and it was bright, with light coming in through the cracks of the makeshift ceiling that threatened to collapse on him. He wondered if it would, if that would be a good thing after all.

His gaze traveled to the middle of the clubhouse, to the beam and the guitar propped against it. It sat there, looking almost lonely, calling him back. He looked at it and it felt like looking at Eddie, with his quiet pouts and eye-rolls and scrunched up nose and that glare he had given him. He felt that anger again, cold and old, not quite burning him but numbing his senses.  _ This is so stupid,  _ he thought to himself with a scoff, turning his head away from the guitar,  _ He’s the one who’s wrong. I didn't do anything.  _ And then his gaze turned back to the guitar as if the instrument was a siren enticing a young sailor into her unforgiving arms, as if it was calling for him. He paused for a moment, rolled his eyes at himself and got up from the hammock and grabbed the guitar by its neck, before sliding down onto the floor with his back against the beam. 

There was a melody in his head; nothing he had heard before, not something long or complicated, but a melody nonetheless. It was slow but not quite sad; ice blue. His fingers struggled with making the sound he was trying to achieve, not bending the way he wanted them to. He scowled and tried to reposition them, strummed the strings, but nothing sounded quite right. He knew what he wanted to play; four or five chords he kept humming to himself, but had a hard time translating it to the guitar. It was frustrating to hear the sounds so clearly in his head and yet not being able to bring them to the real world. 

He paused for a moment.  _ It’s out of tune.  _ He wanted to laugh at himself, it was such an obvious thing and yet he had missed it while thinking about how irritated he was. The revelation didn't make him any less annoyed, but it gave him a moment to not think about anything as he simply checked the chords one by one, tightening the pegs as he saw fit. Mrs Andrews would nag at him if she knew that he had forgotten to tune his guitar.

He tightened the peg, strummed the chord, and tightened again. He moved to the next one; strummed, tightened, strummed again, loosened slightly. The next one was the same; he tightened, strummed, tightened…

_ Eddie would make fun of me for not realising. _

He tightened, and tightened again. 

_ He’d grin and tease me if he were here. _

Tightened again.

_ Maybe call me an idiot or something.  _

There was a snap; loud and jarring, and it made him flinch. He looked down and saw one of the strings hanging from the bridge loosely, no longer connected to the peg. He blinked, trying to slowly process that he had managed to break his E string because of his carelessness, and let out a slow, drawn out groan that gradually increased in volume. He slumped back on the beam with his guitar limp in his grip, and sighed. 

There was a music store near the town centre, most likely the one his friends had bought the guitar from in the first place, rather far from the barrens. Not wanting to carry the guitar all the way there, he left it in the clubhouse and walked into the woods, following the faint trail through the trees and bushes surrounding the area. The weather was oddly nice, unfit for the amount of inconveniences and annoyances he’d had to endure the entire day. The tree branches swayed in the pleasant breeze.

After a while of walking through the streets by himself, he spotted the music store next to the thrift shop. The building was small and run-down, obviously rather old. The colour of the brick walls didn't look as bright and pristine as they probably had a couple decades ago. He pushed the old doors, the rust covering them mixing with the old red paint, and inside there was no air conditioning, just the small breeze of the fan perched on one of the shelves. The walls were grey and the shelves looked more like the ones you’d see in a hardware store; in disarray with barely any sense as to where everything was, as if the products had been haphazardly placed. There was a man behind the counter, perhaps in his late-seventies, who shot him a glance over his magazine when he heard the sound of the door, only to look away a moment later. He didn't seem particularly bothered by a teenager entering the store on his own. He didn't seem to care about anything being stolen, and he didn't seem to care about helping a customer either. Richie was on his own.

He walked through the isles, he seemed to be a lone customer in the store. There were instruments and countless, second-hand devices stacked on the cluttered shelves and hung from the walls, from dull saxophones to pieces of drum sets, to faded and scratched effect pedals and metronomes, and amps of different sizes. He wandered through the store in a state of awe, thinking of all the people that had used the instruments before they had ended up there, wondering about the sounds they made, imagining playing every single one of them. Admittedly, he didn't know much about instruments other than how to play the guitar in a way that could be described as barely average, but it was still fascinating nonetheless.

He found what he was looking for at the far right side of the store, towards the back. There was a huge white wall with all kinds of strings hanging from little hooks, all in different packaging with different words written on them. His gaze traveled from one to the other, trying to decipher the correlation between the massively changing prices and the overall quality of them. There were so many different options; some were light, some were medium, some were made of steel while some were made of nylon, some of the steel ones were copper coated… He felt nauseous, thinking that he probably should have asked Mrs Andrews about the different kinds of strings earlier in the year.

“You alright there, bud?” Richie flinched upon hearing a voice behind him. He turned his head and saw a man standing just a little off to the side, like he had stopped in his tracks upon spotting him staring at the strings with a sort of panicked expression. His hair was a light shade of rusty auburn, falling on his shoulders in loose, messy curls, and he was rather tall. He seemed young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he looked confident in the way he stood with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. “Need some help?” he asked, cocking his head to the side curiously. He had an accent Richie couldn't quite make out, but he had an eloquent way of talking.

“Yeah, I… Well, I broke one of my strings while I was tuning,” Richie replied, turning back to the wall to inspect them closer. None of it made any sense. 

“Happens to the best of us,” the man chuckled, making his way towards him with a walk that bordered on a saunter. Was he from somewhere in Britain? “Well, when was the last time you changed your strings, little guy?”

“I’m not little,” Richie said back, but the man just seemed amused. He added, a little bashfully this time, “I’ve never actually changed my strings.”

“You’ve never changed your strings,” the man repeated in a deadpan tone. “How long have you been playing for?”

“Seven months, give or take,” Richie replied, shrugging. “You know, I’m really fucking good.”

The man chuckled again, his teeth were straight and white. “I’m sure you are.” Richie realised just how handsome he was, in that sort of dirty, troubled way. He looked like he had jumped out of a poster. “Seven months, and this is the first time your strings broke? Little guy, you must have been a saint in your past life because that’s some luck you’ve got there.” 

“My name is Richie,” Richie said bitterly. “Not ‘little guy.’”

“Well, Richie, my name is Adam. Pleasure to meet you,” the man replied with a smile, and that certainly wasn't the name Richie had been expecting to hear from a guy who could easily pass off as the guitarist of a famous rock band. Then he reckoned John Deacon didn’t sound all that fancy either. “And you should probably buy a new set of strings for your guitar. They have solo ones too, but seeing as they’re so old, they will probably break soon anyway. You should change them every three to four months, you know.”

And no, Richie didn't know that. He nodded in embarrassment. 

“Did you have steel or nylon?” Adam asked, his eyes wandering over the packages. 

“Uh, nylon,” Richie replied. 

“Let me see your fingers,” Adam said then, reaching a hand out. When he saw Richie’s hesitation, he chuckled and bent his fingers to encourage him. “Come on, I won't bite.” He didn't seem threatening. Richie unsurely showed his palm to Adam, who took ahold of his hand and inspected the tips of his fingers. “Well, it looks like you’ve grown calluses, so it’d be better to switch over to steel now. It’s a lot sturdier, for starters, and it’s easier to grip.”

“Huh,” Richie muttered, pulling his hand back to inspect the cullouses on the tips of his fingers. 

“Here.” He looked up just in time to catch the packet of strings Adam threw at him. “They’re copper coated, pretty light but sturdy. You should change them in about four months if you play, like, three hours a day. Do you know anyone who can change them for you?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Richie replied distractedly, inspecting the package. He then looked up at Adam and squinted his eyes suspiciously. “Do you work here or something? I feel like I’m being scammed.”

Adam chuckled and raised his hands as if he was surrendering. “You caught me, I do work here,  _ but,”  _ he added before Richie could say anything, raising his index finger, “I’m serious, these are the strings you’re looking for. They’re only eight dollars, and  _ believe me,  _ if I was trying to scam you I could have recommended something  _ much  _ more expensive.”

Richie looked at the strings once again, a brow quirked, before he turned to Adam again. “I’ve never seen you around before, and I’ve been living here for fifteen years,” he pointed out.

Adam grinned. “Well, I’m just helping my great uncle with the store so I can make some extra cash, little guy. Moved here a while ago, actually, with a buddy of mine. We got a great deal on that little house near the synagogue.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i know n o t h i n g about guitars, tell me if i got anything wrong


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn i haven't updated this in forever! sorry about that! with the quarantine and everything, i've been getting sucked back into the IT fandom (and reddie, obviously) and i feel really bad about leaving this on a cliffhanger the last time :( i remembered how much i love writing this fic, and although i can't guarantee when the next chapter will come out, hopefully i can write more soon. thank you for being patient with me <33

Richie stared ahead with an empty gaze; at the old, empty swings and the greenery that was slowly waking up with the spring bringing life to everything. He pulled out a cigarette out of the pack he had bought previously, still cringing at the price, and lit it up. Spring break was around the corner; only a couple days until they would gather and go to Hermon for a few days, at least according to the plan they had made weeks prior. He was somewhat unsure now, what with the argument he’d had with Eddie. They hadn't spoken since then, and he didn't exactly know if their plans were still intact or if it was cancelled. It was a bothersome feeling. He took a drag from his cigarette; it wasn't as nice as the ones Connor had, but it wasn’t horrible either. He’d gotten used to the burn. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Before he could react to the voice, something hit him in the head. Surprised and slightly agitated, Richie turned around to see Adam standing right behind the bench he was sitting on, a lone drumstick in his hand; most likely the thing he had hit him with. His auburn hair was tied up in a messy bun, and he looked like he hadn't been getting enough sleep the past couple of days. “How old are you? You shouldn't be smoking.”

Richie rubbed the top of his head in annoyance. “You shouldn't be hitting kids either,” he pointed out.

“You’re almost as tall as me, kid my ass,” Adam replied, taking a seat next to him on the bench. Richie knew that that wasn't strictly true; Adam was rather tall even compared to most people while Richie was maybe average for his age, but it was nice to hear. Adam reached over and snatched the packet of cigarettes from Richie and stole one without as much as a moment of hesitation. “Imagine you’re paying a fine for smoking in a public place,” he said with a wink, lighting it up behind his hand.

“Don't you have a job?” Richie asked, deadpan. “You should be able to afford your own.”

“Yeah, but free things always taste better,” Adam replied teasingly. Richie rolled his eyes and let him have it.

They had met a few more times after the music store; Richie had seen him helping a stray kitten get out of a car it had crawled up into, they had seen each other at the arcade or on the street, and he had been back to the music store a couple of times. He never bought anything, he didn't really have the money to spend on things he didn't exactly need — cigarettes and comics were an exception to that, and perhaps the reason why he didn't have enough money to spend on things he didn't exactly need in the first place — but it was nice to simply admire the instruments and everything else crammed into the small store. Every time Richie went back, he saw something entirely new; not necessarily age-wise but simply because there was so much to look through. He had told Adam about it looking more like a hardware store rather than a music shop, and had received a full body laugh from him in response. 

“Don't you have any friends?” Adam asked suddenly, blowing out smoke. “Kids your age always have a clique, don't they? I never see you with anyone.”

That brought up a bitter taste in Richie’s mouth. “I could say the same about you,” he pointed out. “You don't have any friends either.”

Adam grinned. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, kiddo,” he said, blowing out smoke and pointing at him. “In fact, I’m here with someone right now. Phil!” A few feet away, a man turned around curiously to look at the two of them, and it was almost shocking how different he looked compared to Adam. He was shorter, not quite below average but not as lanky as Adam either, with short, styled hair that bordered on black, and rather pale skin. He was quite handsome, with his clean shaven face and soft features, kind of like the type of man you’d see at church, who would woo the women with his pretty way of talking and charming words. He reminded Richie of the men in those historical movies his literature teacher adored so much. 

_ There’s no way they’re friends.  _ But the man was approaching them with a hesitant yet positively curious smile on his face. Up close he was even more handsome, contradicting Adam’s harsher lines with his delicate features; the upturn of his nose and the soft curve of his downturned eyes. They were a beautiful hazel in the sunlight of the afternoon. He was reminiscent of Paul McCartney in the early 1960s, only prettier and older looking. Something about him made Richie want to throw his cigarette on the ground and stomp it out.

_ My dad would kill me if he knew I was talking to them,  _ he thought to himself anxiously. _ Or kill them for talking to me. What the fuck am I doing?  _ He smiled. “Nice to meet you, I’m Richie.”

The man smiled. “Phil,” he introduced himself, with — contrary to what Richie had expected — a perfectly normal Maine accent. He was more curious about where Adam was from than ever. “You’re the kid who comes by the music store, right? Adam’s mentioned you before. It’s lovely to meet you.” His smile was vibrant and genuine, Richie didn't know how to respond to it without squirming in his seat.

“Hey, your actual name is Richard, right?” Adam asked out of nowhere, resting his head on the back of the bench and puffing out smoke. “Does anyone call you Dick?”

To Richie’s surprise, Phil slapped Adam upside the head with an almost parental disapproval. “Don't say stuff like that in front of a kid, idiot.”

“He’s old enough to know words like that!” Adam complained, rubbing the back of his head agitatedly. “You’re, what, twelve? Thirteen? I had a job at that age.”

“Fifteen,” Richie replied, deadpan. He realised that his cigarette had almost burned up to the filter while he wasn't paying attention. He threw it on the ground and stomped on it, making sure that it was out. “Probably more mature than you are now, granddad.”

Adam laughed at that, throwing his head back. “I don't doubt that.”

“Wouldn't your parents be worried about you, Richie?” Phil asked gently, his voice so soft and so genuine that it made Richie feel a little strange. His expression wasn't motherly, per se, but it was more caring than he had ever seen father be. “It’s getting dark.”

Richie stared at him for a moment, thinking about the comments his parents had made about these two, and wondering how they could have  _ ever  _ come to those conclusions about these men. Phil seemed softer than most of the men he came across, sure, but he seemed far more three dimensional than the irritating caricature of a gay man his mother had described him as, and Adam was downright masculine. Richie couldn't help but feel rather uncomfortable, he had  _ hoped  _ they would be weird and two dimensional, if only to fuel his own dark thoughts. 

“I don't want to go home,” he said finally, slumping back on the bench and copying Adam in tipping his head back.

“So you’re just going to hang around here by yourself like a loser?” Adam questioned, which was immediately followed by another smacking sound. Richie couldn't help but grin. 

“Yup,” he replied, stretching his limbs. “Turns out, my best friend is a dickhead, so I’m not hanging out with him anymore.” His ears perked up as he heard a shuffling noise from his right. 

Phil sat down on the bench next to him, looking rather worried. “Why? Did something happen between the two of you?”

There it was again, the discomfort that made Richie’s throat close up. He pouted immaturely, looking at his lap. “I made a new friend and he made a big deal out of it, saying I was abandoning them or whatever.” He groaned and slid down in his seat. “It’s just so fucking stupid!  _ He’s  _ so fucking stupid! And lame.”

Phil was silent for a moment. Then, gently, he asked, “Do you think he might be a little jealous of your new friend, Richie?”

Richie frowned at that. Of course he’d thought about that, that seemed obvious, but what did Eddie have to be jealous of? Connor was clearly just a new friend, whilst Eddie had been in his life since they were in diapers. “He should know that it’s not the same, though. Like, Connor is cool and fun to hang out with, and this town has been boring as  _ shit  _ and Connor is… I don't know,  _ new?”  _ He ran a hand through his mess of a hair, and vaguely wondered if it ever would be as long as Adam’s. He doubted it would look half as cool. “And we’d planned this whole trip, you know? But he’s so busy being a  _ dick  _ that it doesn’t even matter anymore! I guess we’re not friend anymore and you know what, fuck him too! I don't have to deal with his bullshit!”

Phil hummed thoughtfully, while Adam was being unusually quiet. Richie was feeling frustrated once again, because it was all so  _ stupid,  _ and here he was ranting to two men who he didn’t even know all that well and his parents had warned him against, but it felt like he had noone else to talk to. He couldn't talk to any of his friends about this, certainly not Connor because he knew that he’d get that sad, guilty puppy look on his face again, and the last thing Richie wanted was to be even angrier at himself for hurting someone else. 

“Well, your friend is right in some aspects,” Adam said suddenly, his tone completely nonchalant. Before Richie could object, he continued, “I’m not saying that you can't have other friends, but I get why he’d feel sort of abandoned. This town isn't all that big, you know. When people get used to something, it’s hard to accept that it’s changing.”

That made Richie pause for a moment, because he wasn't entirely wrong. After Pennywise and the events of that horrific summer, they had tried  _ so  _ hard to turn everything back to normal, but they had come out of that experience horribly scarred, hadn't they? Even Richie himself had felt anxious at the thought of things changing, but he had never considered that Eddie might be feeling that way as well. 

“You should talk to him,” Adam said finally, pushing himself by the knees to spring upright, “It’d be a shame if you had to cancel the whole trip. Also, go the fuck home, I don't want your parents to send an angry mob after us for talking to their son in an abandoned park.”

Richie could see Phil shoot Adam a panicked and somewhat angry look, but he couldn't bring himself to object. He was right; if his parents knew about this, they’d be furious. “Yeah, I guess,” he managed to say, then got off the bench as well, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’ll come by later to look at some of those electro guitars, I like the red one.”

“Lucky for you, that one just got a discount like a second ago,” Adam said playfully, pulling out a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. Without a word, Richie snatched the packet out of his hand and bummed one of the cigarettes, putting it between his teeth and lighting it up with his own lighter. Adam didn't even look particularly annoyed, if not amused. 

“Fine for being a dickhead,” Richie said, grinning, and tipped the cigarette to flick off the ash. Then, turning around, he began to walk in the direction of his house. 

“How come you never scold him for swearing?” he heard Adam in the distance, sounding almost whiny, and could easily imagine Phil rolling his eyes. 

—

Richie rolled around in his bed aimlessly, headphones over his ears. He had been doing that quite a lot lately, feeling rather unmotivated to do anything else. He hadn't been feeling like strumming his guitar, he hadn't even been feeling like watching SNL since all of those jokes he used to find hilarious had become sort of bland. He couldn't even objectively find anything wrong with them, they just didn't have the effect they used to, which somewhat concerned Richie. He looked around in his room in the dark, his eyes not focusing on anything particular, and only vaguely listened to whatever his mixtape was playing. His throat felt scratchy from lack of usage. 

Two more days of school, and it would officially be spring break. He still hadn't talked to Eddie or anyone from his group of friends, he’d spotted Ben throwing glances at him in the corridors every now and then, but he hadn't made an effort to approach them. He hadn't even seen Connor all that much in the past couple of days. He simply chose to simmer in his own loneliness, vaguely listen to whatever his mixtape was playing and aimlessly roll around in his bed. It wasn't even entertaining. Richie was bored. And hungry. 

He sat upright and ran a hand through his hair, cringing at the greasiness. When was the last time he’d taken a shower? He was sure he didn’t smell better than a half-rotten corpse. 

He grabbed a towel and made his way into the bathroom, feeling slightly nauseous on his feet. He didn't think he’d eaten anything that day, which was slightly worrying considering how skinny he already was. He wondered if Eddie would nag at him, if he was there. He pressed his lips together to form a straight line. 

Under the warm water of the shower and amidst the fog that was slowly filling the bathroom, Richie couldn't help but wonder if things ever got easier as people grew older. Were adults simply numb to these types of feelings, or were they just so used to suppressing them that they didn't show on their faces? Did his father ever feel this empty? Did his mother ever stare at a wall blankly for hours, waiting for something to happen, wishing things were different? Perhaps Mrs Andrews was wrong after all, perhaps seasonal depression wasn't real. There was only the everlasting feel of numbness and lack of motivation to simply go on. 

As water rolled off his hair and down his shoulders, Richie happened to catch a glimpse of his wrist. The scar from before had faded so much that it was practically invisible now, the only evidence of his momentary pain almost erased off the surface of earth. He didn't even feel pained at the sight of it, he simply felt something close to melancholic. It was the type of feeling he got when he thought about the 50s — a slice of time he hadn't really lived through, but could imagine vividly. He was sure there was a name for that, perhaps Ben had told him about it once. 

He felt slightly more alive after his shower, although it wasn't enough to make him feel somewhat close to what a normally functioning human being probably felt like. It was raining outside by the time he got to his room, the gentle pitter-pattering of rain against his window a calming white noise, the darkened sky making him forget what time it was. He laid on his bed, still only in a towel, not even bothering to dry his hair. He felt exhausted despite doing practically nothing the entire day, his eyelids were heavy. He thought about Beverly, like he often did; wondering how she was, wondering why she hadn’t called since summer. He didn't blame her for wanting to leave those awful memories behind and starting fresh. He wondered if he could ever do that one day; if he would have the motivation and the will to make the choice of never thinking of Derry ever again. 

He fell asleep like that; still in a towel, wetness clinging to his overgrown hair, with the gentle noise of the rain accompanying him. Although it wasn’t a restful slumber, it wasn’t marred with unwanted dreams either. The world was quiet and grey. When he awoke, nothing had changed. The world was silent like before, with soft light breaking through the overall darkness of the night, peeking through his windows and illuminating his room oddly. He, once again, didn't know what time it was, but his hair was dry. He didn't feel any less tired than before. 

Dinner with his parents went by quickly and yet seemed to drag on forever. His mother was talking about a new car she’d seen on television, gushing over just how  _ stylish  _ it was, while his father hummed along to her words as he ate. Richie was only listening half-heartedly, picking at his food more than he was eating it. 

“Darling,” his mother said after a while, looking somewhat concerned. Richie didn’t really see it reach her eyes. “Stop playing with your dinner. You like chicken, don't you?”

Richie stared at his plate like he was only now seeing it. “I’m just not really hungry, mom,” he said, and it wasn't exactly a lie. He could feel the emptiness of his stomach, but it was like his mouth had a mind of its own and had decided that it wouldn't chew that day. 

“You’re getting awful skinny, flutter bum,” his father said, his mouth full of chicken. “It’s not good for a boy your age to be so skinny.”

“You’re getting taller too,” his mother said thoughtfully, “you should be eating more so you won’t pass out.”

_ Why would it matter?  _ “I’m just not hungry,” he repeated with the same lack of enthusiasm from before. “I think I’m just going to sleep for a bit, I’m really tired.”

His mother frowned, but nodded nonetheless. “Okay, sweetie. I’m going to put it in the fridge so you can eat it later, okay?” 

_ Did they even realise that I was sleeping the entire day?  _ “Okay, mom. Thanks.” And that was it; a stereotypical conversation over a stereotypical dinner in a stereotypical household. Richie didn't understand why he was so bothered by the mundane nature of it when he once had yearned for that normality. He’d thought that he wanted to be so unbothered like that again once, and yet, now all he could think about was how utterly  _ boring  _ it all was. 

He couldn’t help but wonder when it had all started — this crippling sense of emptiness, the feeling that absolutely nothing mattered. As much as he brianstormed, he couldn’t come up with an exact day in which he had suddenly grown tired; both physically and mentally. The rational thing to assume would be that he was still suffering the consequences of that horrendous summer, but he had an inkling that it had been there within him for a long time now, lurking in the shadows of his ever so busy brain, slowly growing bigger and bigger until he couldn’t remember a time when his mind wasn’t filled with numbness. It was a scary thought; thinking you were happy your whole life only to realise suddenly that you were bored with everything. 

But he wasn't bored with everything, was he? When he thought about his friends, all six of them, the numbness got just a little smaller, enough for him to squint through the fog and see something new in the messy box of parts that was his mind. The fog made him sleepy, and it was never truly gone, but when he thought about all of them in the clubhouse, about when they dove off the cliff, about Beverly’s bright smiles and cigarette smoke, Mike’s soft scoffs, the glimmer in Bill’s eyes, Stanley’s eye-rolls, Ben’s nervous chuckles, and Eddie; with nothing specific, but simply his existence and everything he was and did… When he thought about those things, the fog seemed less thick, like it wasn’t invading his body through his nostrils and mouth. He was still sleepy, but it didn’t feel as heavy as before.

And then there was the guilt. The guilt always followed when he allowed himself to be a little less numb than usual; the guilt of hurting the only people he cared about, the guilt of being so selfish and stubborn. No matter how many times he told himself that he was in the right, a part of him couldn't accept losing Eddie for some other, insignificant friendship. He knew that he was allowed to have different friends, but the hurt on Eddie’s face was the only thing that managed to cut through the numbness in his mind. It was terrifying. 

—

“Hey.” Richie looked up, surprised, to see Ben Hanscom standing next to the table he was sitting at. There was a nervous smile on his face, one he hadn't worn in at least a couple of months. Richie didn't like seeing it again.

“Hey, Haystack,” Richie said, managing a smile and a playful lilt to his tone, mixing the incredibly greasy macaroni and cheese in his tray to distract himself. He lowered his gaze. “What wind threw you over here?”

Ben shuffled on his feet for a moment, glanced back at something, and cleared his throat. “Please come on the trip with us.” Richie looked up again, his eyes wide. Ben looked awfully embarrassed. “I don't know what’s going on with you and Eddie and why you guys keep fighting but… the group isn’t the same without you, Richie. Stan and Bill and Mike don't mention it, but I know they think that way too. I… Eddie as well.” He shrugged. “The Losers Club needs to stick together. I mean, that's how we defeated It, right? Why should this be any different?”

Richie frowned. “It’s more complicated than that,” he grumbled, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Ben had always been rather emotional and unbearably kind, and although normally Richie wouldn't pay much attention to it, lately he felt like a bug under a microscope lens all the time. Ben’s kindness came off as prying, and Richie had never been really good at communicating through empathy. He picked his tray up and got to his feet. He almost couldn't remember what feeling hungry was like anymore. “Sorry, Haystack, I think I’ll have to pass on the trip. Make sure the others don't fall off a cliff somewhere and break their necks though, alright?”

“Richie—”

“Sorry, need to go,” Richie said, turning his back to Ben so he could dump his tray in the bin. He felt restless, jittery, as if Pennywise had returned from that nasty gutter he had crawled out of and was breathing down his neck. 

“Please just think about it!” Richie paused in his steps but didn't turn around. He knew Ben must be close to crying, the softie that he was. Richie felt his heart twist at the thought. “You don't have to come now, but… just think about it, alright? We really all do want you there with us.”

Richie didn't reply and simply walked away. 

—

“You’re here again.”

Richie looked up from the pile of amps he was inspecting and raised an eyebrow at Adam. “Am I disturbing your  _ very  _ busy day?” he asked sarcastically, pointing at the rather empty store. “Don't want to trouble you, when the business is booming.”

“Alright, what crawled up your ass and died there?” Adam said, placing a box of violin rosin on the shelf and turning to look at him with an expression Richie hadn't seen on him before. He looked almost disappointed in a paternal way. Something knotted at the back of Richie’s throat. 

He pouted and fumbled with the useless buttons of the unplugged amps. “Nothing,” he muttered. Then, he let out a sigh. “Do you remember the trip I told you about? The one me and my friends were going to go on.”

Adam paused for a moment, thinking. “I do, why?”

“Well, it’s today and I’m not going, I guess.” Richie childishly smacked the amp with the loose cord. “I hope they get pinched by crabs there.” 

Adam quietly walked over and crouched on the floor next to him, both of their eyes on the amps. It sort of felt like a confession booth, although Richie couldn't imagine someone less priestly than Adam. It would be even better if he was Jewish. “Why, exactly, aren't you going with them? Assuming you’ve talked to your friend like I told you to,” he said, his tone pointed and making it  _ very  _ clear he knew that Richie hadn't. 

Richie frowned at him. “I don't like it when you talk like an adult, it’s creepy as fuck.”

“It might be surprising, little guy, but I  _ am  _ an adult.” Adam’s expression softened, just a little bit. “Tell me, why are you intentionally holding yourself back from making up with him? You hold grudges and be stubborn when you’re an adult, not when you’re a teenager. You’re supposed to fight with your friends and then make up by buying ice cream for each other. Not… whatever the fuck this is.”

And that was a good question; why  _ was  _ Richie intentionally forcing himself to be stubborn on this? It was incredibly stupid and something he and Eddie wouldn’t care for even a second about, and yet he wanted to be stubborn and he wanted to keep Eddie just out of reach and be mad and numb. It was comfortable to be numb, to hurt when one got used to it.

“You’re punishing yourself,” Adam muttered, as if he was reading his mind. His tone was as flat as his expression; no drop of judgement or shock or confusion. Like was used to such a sight, like Richie was Adam’s childhood neighbourhood which had grown familiar. “I don't know what for, though.”

Richie could feel his face grow cold, as if the blood in his cheeks had been sucked out. He sniffled and turned his head away. “I don't know what you’re talking about. I’m not making up with him because he’s a dick, that’s all.”

Adam hummed. “If you say so, kiddo.” When Richie risked a glance at him, he saw that he was staring at the electric guitars hanging from the ceiling. “Do you happen to listen to Queen?”

Richie frowned. “Obviously. Doesn't  _ everyone  _ listen to them at this point? It’d be fucking stupid not to.”

“Not everyone,” Adam said, shrugging. “My old man doesn't like them, he thinks they’re too effeminate when that has nothing to do with their music. He wouldn't let me watch their music videos back when I lived with them, it sucked. He didn't even let me listen to them. Not that that stopped me, of course.”

“How old even are you?” Richie asked, his nose creased. “I can’t decide if you’re forty or fifteen.”

Adam simply smiled devilishly as an answer. “It’d be cool to play like them, huh? I feel like they really know how to show their thoughts through music.  _ You’re My Best Friend?  _ An absolute classic and a damn good song, but it’s also nice to see someone write a song for his wife just to tell the world how he feels. Lyrics and music are weird like that, they help you see things within you that you didn't even know were there before.”

“What are you trying to say, grandpa?” Richie said, huffing.

“I’m saying,” Adam explained, sanding upright and dusting off his jeans, “that you should write a song. You seem like the type who would be good at that. Maybe you’d figure stuff out too.”

Richie squinted. “That sounds… kind of gay.”

Adam stared right back at him, his hands on his hips. “Are you trying to call Brian May gay? For actually liking his wife?”

“No, but—

“That’s what I thought,” Adam said, going back to haul a box of new strings. “And by the way, not that it’s any of my business, but I wouldn't miss that trip if I were you. It’s usually the kind of shit people look back on and feel nostalgic or whatever. It’s fine if you honestly think you’re sick of them or something, but if you’re just pulling this shit to make yourself or  _ them  _ suffer, then that’s petty as fuck and honestly not something I’d expect from you.” He groaned as he picked up the heavy box, and threw a final glance at Richie, saying, “But you don't have to listen to me, obviously,” before disappearing behind the shelves. 

Richie stared at the spot Adam had been standing for a moment, and then returned his gaze to the amps, not really seeing anything but only vaguely aware of his surroundings.  _ Write a song? Me? You’ve got to be joking.  _ He scoffed, hanging his head low, and yet there was still an insistent voice in his head. He couldn't make out what it was saying, but it was very stubborn and very loud. 

He pushed himself upright by his knees and got to his feet. “I’m leaving!” he yelled, not expecting a response. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked out of the store, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shivered in his short-sleeved, bright yellow shirt; the weather that day was surprisingly cold for the middle of april. The fire from the lighter warmed his palms only momentarily before disappearing. He walked into the ragged alley next to the music store and leaned against the cold bricks of the wall, inhaling smoke and closing his eyes. He was so utterly tired; he had been tired for years, but it had grown only stronger since he stopped talking to his friends; the only people in his life who actually somewhat seemed to care about him. No matter how many times they’d been the reason for him being thrusted into danger after danger the previous summer, he knew that any of them would risk their lives in order to save him. That was the sort of bond people created when they were faced with a man-eating, psychopathic clown, he presumed. 

He rubbed his face tiredly under his chunky glasses, letting out a sigh. Maybe Adam was right after all. He didn't think he was the type of person who let stuff like this get to him; when he and Bill had fought, they had resolved mere days later, because that’s what they  _ did.  _ They didn't sit around pitying themselves and hating anything and everything they faced. Bill was strong like that and Richie admired him; he could admit when he was wrong and he could apologise, he could make everything right instantly. Richie wasn't that sort of person, he was pitiful and angry at himself. Under the disguise of obnoxious jokes and a carefully built defense mechanism, all Richie could see within himself was a sad little boy; pathetic, angry and numb. 

He took a final drag of his cigarette and threw it on the ground to stomp it out. As he was about to turn the corner and walk in the direction of his house, a thought made him stop. He quickly changed his direction to the woods, to the clubhouse. 

—

Richie jogged to the ticket booth, a duffel bag and a guitar case weighing down on his shoulders, his breath coming out in harsh pants. “Has the 6pm bus to Hermon left?” he asked the man behind the glass, feeling anxious. He was only late by a few minutes, but those few minutes could change everything. 

The man raised an eyebrow, then checked the timeline. “You’re in luck, kid. It seems like there was a delay. Do you have a ticket?”

Richie smiled in relief, nodding. “Yeah, I got it a few weeks ago. Thanks.”

The lot was packed full of busses, with different signs on every single one of them. Richie’s eyes skimmed the premises and it felt like an elephant had stepped off his chest when he finally spotted a bus towards the end of the row with the words  _ Derry-Hermon  _ written at the front with large, bold letters. What’s more was that he could clearly see a boy in front of the bus, large in structure and looking rather anxious, holding onto the straps of his backpack. He was looking around as if in search for someone. 

Richie smiled to himself and began jogging towards Ben when Eddie suddenly poked his head out of the doors, looking rather agitated. “Come on, Ben. He’s not going to show.”

“Quite wrong!” Richie called, unable to contain his excitement. Both Eddie’s and Ben’s faces turned to him immediately; Ben was smiling like Christmas had come early while Eddie’s expression was more unreadable. He was surprised, for sure, but Richie couldn't tell whether he was upset or not, and that was perhaps the scariest thing. He took a deep breath before approaching them, tugging on the strap of his bag anxiously. “You losers really thought I’d ditch you, huh? I’m wounded, really.”

Ben seemed too excited to contain himself as well, as he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Richie’s torso. Richie couldn't help but let out a surprised chuckle. “Easy there, Haystack! I wasn't about to divorce you and take the kids or anything!”

Ben pulled back and smiled. “Thanks,” he muttered, so genuinely that it could have brought Richie to tears. He never really said it, but Ben had a special place in his twisted, weird heart. He patted his head and pushed him towards the bus, assuring him that he would be joining them in a second. 

And then he was suddenly left alone with Eddie. Richie Tozier, who was known for being loud and incapable of shutting up even for the sake of everyone else’s mental well-being, was suddenly unable to think of anything to say. He would probably need to start with an apology, but he bitterly realised that he  _ really  _ didn't want to. 

“No Bowers, huh?” Eddie muttered, not looking at him, his arms crossed. “Kind of surprised.”

Richie frowned and had to remind himself to calm down before he said something that would make everything worse than it already was. Eddie was clearly upset, and although he would most likely never speak about it ever again, Richie knew that he was probably burning himself alive with guilt already. So, to make things easier just a little for the both of them, Richie took a breath and shook his head. “No, Connor’s not here, Eds.” 

That made Eddie’s expression soften a bit, if only a little. He uncrossed his arms and turned his head. Richie could see how pink the tips of his ears were. “Don't call me that,” he muttered, one corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. The lack of anger in his tone made something bloom in Richie’s chest, grip the strap of his bag even tighter. 

“Just so you know, Spaghetti Head,” Richie said as he walked past Eddie, getting on the bus, “you’re cuter than him anyway.”

Eddie was still hiding his face, but Richie had a feeling they were about to patch things up once again. 

  
  



End file.
